SCENE 1.

A COLLECTION OF OLD ENGLISH PLAYS, VOL. IV

In Four Volumes

Edited by

A.H. BULLEN

1882-89.

CONTENTS:

Preface

Two Tragedies in One. By Robert Yarington

The Captives, or the Lost Recovered. By Thomas Heywood

The Costlie Whore.

Everie Woman in her Humor.

Appendix

Index

Footnotes

PREFACE.

The fourth and final volume of this Collection of Old Plays ought to

have been issued many months ago. I dare not attempt to offer any

excuses for the wholly unwarrantable delay.

In the preface to the third volume I stated that I hoped to be able to

procure a transcript of an unpublished play (preserved in Eg. MS. 1,994)

of Thomas Heywood. It affords me no slight pleasure to include this play

in the present volume. Mr. JEAVES, of the Manuscript Department of the

British Museum, undertook the labour of transcription and persevered to

the end. As I have elsewhere stated, the play is written in a detestable

hand; and few can appreciate the immense trouble that it cost Mr. JEAVES

to make his transcript. Where Mr. JEAVES' labours ended mine began; I

spent many days in minutely comparing the transcript with the original.

There are still left passages that neither of us could decipher, but

they are not numerous.

I may be pardoned for regarding the Collection with some pride. Six of

the sixteen plays are absolutely new, printed for the first time; and I

am speaking within bounds when I declare that no addition so substantial

has been made to the Jacobean drama since the days of Humphrey Moseley

and Francis Kirkman. _Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt_ has been styled by

Mr. Swinburne a "noble poem." Professor Delius urged that it should be

translated into German; and I understand that an accomplished scholar,

Dr. Gelbeke of St. Petersburg, has just completed an admirable

translation. Meanwhile the English edition[1] has been reproduced in

Holland.

In the original announcement of this Collection I promised a reprint of

_Arden of Feversham_ from the quarto of 1592; I also proposed to include

plays by Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes. After I had transcribed

_Arden of Feversham_ I determined not to include it in the present

series. It occurred to me that I should enhance the value of these

volumes by excluding such plays as were already accessible in modern

editions. Accordingly I rejected _Arden of Feversham, Sir John

Oldcastle, Patient Grissel_, and _The Yorkshire Tragedy_. The plays of

Davenport, William Rowley, and Nabbes were excluded on other grounds.

Several correspondents suggested to me that I should issue separately

the complete works of each of these three dramatists; and, not without

some misgivings, I adopted this suggestion.

I acknowledge with regret that the printing has not been as accurate as

I should have desired. There have been too many misprints, especially in

the first two volumes;[2] but in the eyes of generous and competent

readers these blemishes (trivial for the most part) will not detract

from the solid value of the Collection.

It remains that I should thank Mr. BERNARD QUARITCH, the most famous

bibliopole of our age (or any age), for the kind interest that he has

shewn in the progress of my undertaking. Of his own accord Mr. QUARITCH

offered to subscribe for one third of the impression,--an offer which I

gratefully accepted. I have to thank Mr. FLEAY for looking over the

proof-sheets of a great part of the present volume and for aiding me

with suggestions and corrections. To Dr. KÖHLER, librarian to the Grand

Duke of Weimar, I am indebted for the true solution (see _Appendix_) of

the rebus at the end of _The Distracted Emperor_. Mr. EBSWORTH, with his

usual kindness, helped me to identify some of the songs mentioned in

_Everie Woman in Her Humor_ (see _Appendix_).

17, SUMATRA ROAD, WEST HAMPSTEAD, N.W.

_8th October, 1885_.

INTRODUCTION TO _TWO TRAGEDIES IN ONE_.

Of Robert Yarington, the author of _Two Tragedies in One_ absolutely

nothing is known. There is no mention of him in Henslowe's Diary, and

none of his contemporaries (so far as I can discover) make the slightest

allusion to him. The _Two Tragedies_ is of the highest rarity and has

never been reprinted before.

There are two distinct plots in the present play. The one relates to the

murder of Robert Beech, a chandler of Thames Street, and his boy, by a

tavern-keeper named Thomas Merry; and the other is founded on a story

which bears some resemblance to the well-known ballad of _The Babes in

the Wood_. I have not been able to discover the source from which the

playwright drew his account of the Thames Street murder. Holinshed and

Stow are silent; and I have consulted without avail Antony Munday's

"View of Sundry Examples," 1580, and "Sundry strange and inhumaine

Murthers lately committed," 1591 (an excessively rare, if not unique,

tract preserved at Lambeth). Yet the murder must have created some stir

and was not lightly forgotten. From Henslowe's Diary[3] (ed. Collier,

pp. 92-3) we learn that in 1599 Haughton and Day wrote a tragedy on the

subject,--"the Tragedy of Thomas Merrye." The second plot was derived, I

suppose, from some Italian story; and it is not improbable that the

ballad of the _Babes in the Wood_ (which was entered in the

Stationers' Books in 1595, tho' the earliest printed copy extant is the

black-letter broadside--circ. 1640?--in the Roxburghe Collection) was

adapted from Yarington's play.

Although not published until 1601, the _Two Tragedies_ would seem from

internal evidence to have been written some years earlier. The language

has a bald, antiquated look, and the stage-directions are amusingly

simple. I once entertained a theory (which I cannot bring myself to

wholly discard) that _Arden of Feversham_, 1592, _Warning for Fair

Women_, 1599, and _Two Tragedies in One_, 1601, are all by the same

hand; that the _Warning_ and _Two Tragedies_, though published later,

were early essays by the author whose genius displayed its full power in

_Arden of Feversham_. A reader who will take the trouble to read the

three plays together will discover many points of similarity between

them. _Arden_ is far more powerful than the two other plays; but I

venture to think that the superiority lies rather in single scenes and

detached passages than in general dramatic treatment. The noble scene of

the quarrel and reconciliation between Alice Arden and Mosbie is

incomparably finer than any scene in the _Warning_ or _Two Tragedies_;

but I am not sure that Arden contains another scene which can be

definitely pronounced to be beyond Yarington's ability, though there are

many scattered passages displaying such poetry as we find nowhere in the

_Two Tragedies_. That Yarington could write vigorously is shown in the

scene where Fallerio hires the two murderers (who remind us of Shagbag

and Black Will in _Arden_) to murder his nephew; and again in the

quarrel between these two ruffians. Allenso's affection for his little

cousin and solicitude at their parting are tenderly portrayed with

homely touches of quiet pathos. The diction of the _Two Tragedies_ is

plain and unadorned. In reading _Arden_ we sometimes feel that the

simplicity of language has been deliberately adopted for artistic

purposes; that the author held plenty of strength in reserve, and would

not have been wanting if the argument had demanded a loftier style. In

Yarington's case we have no such feeling. He seems to be giving us the

best that he had to give; and it must be confessed that he is

intolerably flat at times. It is difficult to resist a smile when the

compassionate Neighbour (in his shirt), discovering poor Thomas

Winchester with the hammer sticking in his head, delivers himself after

this fashion:--

"What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede,

Thus to bemangle a distressed youth

Without all pittie or a due remorse!

See how the hammer sticketh in his head

Wherewith this honest youth is done to death!

Speak, honest _Thomas_, if any speach remaine:

What cruell hand hath done this villanie?"

Merry's "last dying speech and confession" is as nasty as such things

usually are.

In the introduction to _Arden of Feversham_ I intend to return to the

consideration of Yarington's _Two Tragedies_.

Two Lamentable Tragedies.

The one, of the Murther of _Maister_ Beech A _Chaundler in_

Thames-streete, and his boye, done by _Thomas Merry_.

_The other of a Young childe murthered_ in a Wood by two Ruffins, _with

the consent of his Vnckle_.

By ROB. YARINGTON.

LONDON.

Printed for _Mathew Lawe, and are to be solde at _his Shop in Paules

Church-yarde neere vnto S. Austines Gate, at the signe of the Foxe_.

1601.

Two Tragedies in One.

_Enter Homicide, solus_.

I have in vaine past through each stately streete,

And blinde-fold turning of this happie towne,

For wealth, for peace, and goodlie government,

Yet can I not finde out a minde, a heart

For blood and causelesse death to harbour in;

They all are bent with vertuous gainefull trade,

To get their needmentes for this mortall life,

And will not soile their well-addicted harts

With rape, extortion, murther, or the death

Of friend or foe, to gaine an Empery.

I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye

With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone,

Readie to passe to faire Elizium,

Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood

Of fathers by their children murthered:

When all men else do weepe, lament and waile,

The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies,

It glads me so, that it delightes my heart,

To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.

_Enter Avarice_.

But here comes _Avarice_, as if he sought,

Some busie worke for his pernicious thought:

Whether so fast, all-griping _Avarice_?

_Ava_. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.

_Ho_. I may supplie the man you wish to have.

_Ava_. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave;

I doe not like intruding companie,

That seeke to undermine my secrecie.

_Ho_. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.

_Ava_. Many say so, that prove false in the end.

_Ho_. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.

_Ava_. It may be so, and know thy want of grace.

What! _Homicide_? thou art the man I seeke:

I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke. [_Kisse, imbrace_.

Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie,

I had forborne to bight so bitterlie.

_Hom_. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive,

A plot of horred desolation?

Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good,

And I will quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.

_Ava_. I know two men, that seem two innocents,

Whose lookes, surveied with iuditiall eyes,

Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie;

But snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers,

Then never credit outward semblaunces.

_Enter[4] Trueth_.

I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse,

And will performe through hope of benefit:

More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.

_Hom_. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure

Their hungrie harts with hope of recompence,

But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes,

Unleast a deed of murther farther it,

Then blood on blood, shall overtake them all,

And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

_Cove_. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine,

Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts.

Inter [_sic_], insult, make captive at thy will,

Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill:

Yonder is _Truth_, she commeth to bewaile,

The times and parties that we worke upon.

_Hom_. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me,

We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie,

And will go make a two-folde Tragedie.

[_Exeunt_.

_Truth_. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule,

Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie _Canibals_,

That ioy to practise others miseries.

Gentles, prepare your teare-bedecked eyes,

To see two shewes of lamentation,

Besprinckled every where with guiltlesse blood,

Of harmlesse youth, and pretie innocents.

Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe,

_Truth_ rues to tell the truth of these laments:

The one was done in famous London late,

Within that streete whose side the River Thames

Doth strive to wash from all impuritie:

But yet that silver stream can never wash,

The sad remembrance of that cursed deede,

Perform'd by cruell _Merry_ on iust _Beech_,

And his true boye poore _Thomas Winchester_.

The most here present, know this to be true:

Would _Truth_ were false, so this were but a tale!

The other further off, but yet too neere,

To those that felt and did the crueltie:

Neere _Padua_ this wicked deed was done,

By a false Uncle, on his brothers sonne,

Left to his carefull education

By dying Parents, with as strict a charge

As ever yet death-breathing brother gave.

Looke for no mirth, unlesse you take delight,

In mangled bodies, and in gaping wounds,

Bloodily made by mercy-wanting hands.

Truth will not faine, but yet doth grieve to showe,

This deed of ruthe and miserable woe.

[_Exit_.

[ACT THE FIRST.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Merry_.

I live in meane and discontented state,

But wherefore should I think of discontent?

I am belov'd, I have a pretty house,

A loving sister, and a carefull man,

That doe not thinke their dayes worke well at end,

Except it bring me in some benefit:

And well frequented is my little house

With many guestes and honest passengers,

_Enter Beech and a friend_.

Which may in time advance my humble state

To greater wealth and reputation.

And here comes friends to drinke some beare or ale; [_Sit in his Shop_.

They are my neighbours, they shall have the best.

_Ne_. Come neighbour _Beech_, lets have our mornings draught

And wele go drinke it at yong _Merries_ house:

They say he hath the best in all this towne,

Besides they say he is an honest man,

And keepes good rule and orders in his house.

_Beech_. He's so indeede; his conversation

Is full of honest harmlesse curtesie:

I dare presume, if that he be within,

Hele serve us well, and keepe us company.

See where he is, go in, ile follow you; [_Strive curtesies_.

Nay straine no curtesie, you shall goe before.

_Mer_. Your welcome, neighbour, you are welcome, sir;

I praie sit downe, your verie welcome both.

_Beech_. We thanke you for it, and we thinke no lesse.

Now fill two cans of your ould strongest beare;

That make so manie loose their little wits,

And make indentures as they go along.

_Mer_. Hoe, sister _Rachell_!

_Rach_. I come presently,

_Enter Rachell_.

_Mer_. Goe draw these gentlemen two cans of beare.

Your negligence that cannot tend the shop,

Will make our customers forsake the house.

Wheres _Harry Williams_ that he staies not here?

_Rach_. My selfe was busie dressing up the house:

As for your man he is not verie well,

But sitteth sleeping by the kitchen fier.

_Mer_. If you are busie, get you up againe; [_Exit_.

Ile draw my neighbours then their drinke my selfe,

Ile warrant you as good as any mans,--

And yet no better; many have the like.

[_Exit for Beare_.

_Neigh_. This showes him for a plain and honest man,

That will not flatter with too many wordes;

Some shriltong'd fellowes would have cogd and faind,

Saying, ile draw the best in Christendome.

_Beech_. Hees none of those, but beares an honest minde,

And shames to utter what he cannot prove.

_Enter Merry_.

But here he comes: is that the best you have?

_Mer_. It is the best upon mine honest worde.

_Beech_. Then drinke to us.

_Mer_. I drinke unto you both.

_Nei_. _Beech_. We pledge you both, and thanke you hartelie.

_Beech_. Heres to you sir.

_Neigh_. I thank you.

[_Maister Beech drinkes; drinke Neighbour_.

_Neigh_. Tis good indeed and I had rather drinke

Such beare as this as any _Gascoine_ Wine:

But tis our _English_ manner to affect

Strange things, and price them at a greater rate,

Then home-bred things of better consequence.

_Mer_. Tis true indeede; if all were of your mind,

My poore estate would sooner be advanc'd,

And our French Marchants seeke some other trade.

_Beech_. Your poore estate! nay, neighbour, say not so,

For God be thanked you are well to live.

_Mer_. Not so good neighbour, but a poore young man,

That would live better if I had the meanes:

But as I am I can content myselfe,

Till God amend my poore abilitie.

_Neigh_. In time no doubt; why, man, you are but young,

And God, assure your selfe, hath wealth in store,

If you awaight his will with patience.

_Beech_. Thankes be to God I live contentedlie,

And yet I cannot boast of mightie wealth:

But yet Gods blessings have beene infinit,

And farre beyond my expectations.

My shop is stor'd, I am not much in debt;

And here I speake it where I may be bold,

I have a score of poundes to helpe my neede,

If God should stretch his hand to visit me

With sicknesse or such like adversity.

_Neigh_. Enough for this; now, neighbour, whats to pay?

_Mer_. Two pence, good sir.

_Beech_. Nay, pray, sir, forbeare;

Ile pay this reckoning, for it is but small.

_Neigh_. I will not strive since yee will have it so.

_Beech_. Neighbour, farewell.

[_Exit Beech and Neigh_.

_Mer_. Farewell unto you both.

His shop is stor'd, he is not much in debt,

He hath a score of poundes to helpe his neede:

I and a score too if the trueth were known.

I would I had a shop so stor'd with wares,

And fortie poundes to buy a bargain with,

When as occasion should be offered me;

Ide live as merrie as the wealthiest man

That hath his being within London walles.

I cannot buy my beare, my bread, my meate,

My fagots, coales, and such like necessaries,

At the best hand, because I want the coine,

That manie misers cofer up in bagges,

Having enough to serve their turnes besides.

Ah for a tricke to make this _Beeches_ trash

Forsake his cofer and to rest in mine!

I, marrie, sir, how may that tricke be done?

Marrie, with ease and great facilitie.

I will invent some new-found stratagem,

To bring his coyne to my possession.

What though his death relieve my povertie?

Gaine waites on courage, losse on cowardice.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter Pandino and Armenia sicke on a bed, Pertillo

their Sonne, Falleria his Brother, Sostrato his Wife,

Alinso their Sonne, and a Scrivener with a Will, &c_.

_Pan_. Brother and sister, pray you both drawe neere,

And heere my will which you have promised

Shall be performde with wished providence.

This little Orphant I must leave behinde,

By your direction to be governed.

As for my wife and I, we do awaite

The blessed houre when it shall please the Lord,

To take us to the iust _Ierusalem_.

Our chiefest care is for that tender boye,

Which we should leave discomfortlesse behinde,

But that we do assure us of your love

And care to guide his weake unhable youth

In pathes of knowledge, grace, and godlinesse.

As for the riches of this mortall life,

We leave enough; foure hundreth pounds a yeare,

Besides two thousand pounds to make a stocke,

In money, iewels, plate, and houshold stuffe,--

Which yearly rents and goods we leave to you,

To be surrendered into his hands,

When he attaines to yeeres of discreation.

My Will imports thus much, which you shall heare;

And you shall be my sole Executor.

_Fall_. Brother and sister, how my hart laments

To see your weake and sicke afflicted limmes

Neere overcome with dyrefull malladies,

The God of heaven can truly testifie,--

Which, to speake plaine, is nere a whit at all--

[_To the people_.

Which knowes the secret corners of my heart;

But for the care you do impose on me,

For the tuition of your little sonne,

Thinke, my kinde brother, I will meditate,

Both day and night, how I may best fulfill,

The care and trust, reposed in your Will,--

And see him posted quickly after you. [_To the people_.

_Arm_. Enough, kinde brother; we assure us so,

Else would we seeke another friend abroade,

To do our willes and dying Testament.

Nature and love will have a double care

To bring him up with carefull diligence,

As best beseemes one of such parentage.

_Fall_. Assure your selfe, the safest course I can,

Shall be provided for your little sonne,--

He shall be sent unto the King of Heaven. [_To the people_.

_Sostr_. Feare not, good brother, and my loving sister,

But we will have as tender care of him

As if he were our owne ten thousand times:

God will be father of the fatherlesse,

And keepe him from all care and wretchednesse.

_Allenso_. Unckle and Aunt take comfort, I will see

My little coozen have no injurie.

_Pan_. _Ar_. We thanke you all, come let the Will be read,

_Fall_.--If it were seald, I would you both were dead.

_Scrive_. Then give attention, I will read the Will.

_Reade the Will.

In the name of God. Amen.--I, &c_.

_Pan_. Thus, if my Sonne miscarry, my deare brother,

You and your sonne shall then enjoy the land

And all the goods which he should have possess'd.

_Fall_. If he miscarry, brother! God forbid!

God blesse mine Nephew, that thine eyes may see

Thy childrens children with prosperity!

I had rather see the little urchin hang'd [_To the people_.

Then he should live and I forgoe the land.

_Ar_. Thankes, gentle brother; husband seale the will.

_Pand_. Give me a Pen and Inke first to subscribe;

I write so ill through very feeblenesse,

That I can scarcely know this hand for mine,

But that you all can witnesse that it is.

_Scri_. Give me the seale: I pray, sir, take it of.

This you deliver for your latest will,

And do confirme it for your Testament?

_Pand_. With all my hart; here, brother, keepe my Will,

And I referre me to the will of God,

Praying him deale as well with you and yours,

As you no doubt will deale with my poore child.

Come, my _Pertillo_, let me blesse thee, boy,

And lay my halfe-dead hand upon thy head.

God graunt those days that are cut off in me,

With ioy and peace may multiply in thee.

Be slowe to wrath, obey thy Unckle still,

Submit thy selfe unto Gods holy will,

In deede and word see thou be ever true;

So brother, childe, and kinsfolkes, all adue. [_He dyeth_.

_Per_. Ah my deere Mother, is my father dead?

_Ar_. I, my sweete boye, his soule to heaven is fled,

But I shall after him immediatly.

Then take my latest blessing ere I dye:

Come, let me kisse thy little tender lips,

Cold death hath tane possession of thy mother;

Let me imbrace thee in my dying armes,

And pray the Lord protect thee from al harmes.

Brother, I feare, this Child when I am gone,

Wil have great cause of griefe and hideous feare:

You will protect him, but I prophecie,

His share will be of woe and misery:

But mothers feares do make these cares arise;

Come, boye, and close thy mothers dying eyes.

Brother and sister, here [_sic_] the latest words,

That your dead sister leaves for memory:

If you deale ill with this distressed boye,

God will revenge poore orphants iniuries,

If you deale well, as I do hope you will,

God will defend both you and yours from ill.

Farewell, farewell, now let me breath my last,

Into his dearest mouth, that wanteth breath,

And as we lov'd in life imbrace in death.

Brother and sister this is all I pray,

Tender my boye when we are laide in clay. [_Dyeth_.

_Allen_. Gods holy Angell guide your loving soules

Unto a place of endlesse happinesse.

_Sostr_. Amen, Amen. Ah, what a care she had

Of her small Orphant! She did dying pray,

To love her Childe when she was laide in claye.

_Scr_. Ah blame her not although she held it deare;

She left him yonge, the greater cause of feare.

_Fall_. Knew she my mind, it would recall her life, [_To the people_.

And like a staring Commet she would moove

Our harts to think of desolation.--

Scrivenor, have you certified the Will?

_Scri_. I have.

_Fall_. Then theres two Duckets for your paines.

_Scri_. Thankes, gentle sir, and for this time farewell.

[_Exit_.

_Sost_. Come pretty coozen, cozened by grim death

Of thy most carefull parents all too soone;

Weepe not, sweete boye, thou shalt have cause to say,

Thy Aunt was kinde, though parents lye in claye.

_Pert_. But give me leave first to lament the losse,

Of my deere parents, nature bindeth me,

To waile the death of those that gave me life,

And if I live untill I be a man,

I will erect a sumptuous monument,

And leave remembrance to ensuing times

Of kind _Pandino_ and _Armenia_.

_Allen_. That shall not neede; my father will erect

That sad memoriall of their timeles[5] death,

And at that tombe we will lament and say

Soft lye the bones of faire _Armenia_.

_Fall_. Surcease,_ Allenso_; thats a booteless cost,

The Will imports no such iniunction:

I will not spend my little Nephewes wealth,

In such vaine toyes; they shall have funerall,

But with no stately ceremoniall pompe,

Thats good for nought but fooles to gase uppon.

Live thou in hope to have thine unckles land.

_Allen_. His land! why, father, you have land enough,

And more by much then I do know to use:

I would his vertues would in me survive,

So should my Unckle seeme in me alive.

But to your will I doe submit my selfe;

Do what you please concerning funeralls.

_Fall_. Come then, away, that we may take in hand,

To have possession of my brothers land,

His goods and all untill he come of age

To rule and governe such possessions.--

That shalbe never, or ile misse my marke,

Till I surrender up my life to death:

And then my Sonne shalbe his fathers heire,

And mount aloft to honors happy chaire.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE III.]

_Enter Merry, solus_.

_Beech_ hath a score of pounds to helpe his neede,

And I may starve ere he will lend it me:

But in dispight ile have it ere I sleepe,

Although I send him to eternall rest.

But, shallow foole, thou talkst of mighty things,

And canst not compasse what thou dost conceive.

Stay, let me see, ile fetch him to my house,

And in my garret quickly murther him:

The night conceales all in her pitchie cloake,

And none can open what I meane to hide.

But then his boy will say I fetcht him foorth:

I am resolv'd he shall be murthered to [_sic_];

This toole shall write, subscribe, and seale their death

And send them safely to another world.

But then my sister, and my man at home,

Will not conceale it when the deede is done.

Tush, one for love, the other for reward,

Will never tell the world my close intent.

My conscience saith it is a damned deede

To traine one foorth, and slay him privily.

Peace, conscience, peace, thou art too scripulous [_sic_];

Gaine doth attend[6] this resolution.

Hence, dastard feare! I must, I can, I will,

Kill my best friend to get a bag of gold.

They shall dye both, had they a thousand lives;

And therefore I will place this hammer here,

And take it as I follow _Beech_ up staires,

That suddenlie, before he is aware,

I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines.--

Hoe, _Rachell_, bring my cloake; look to the house,

I will returne againe immediately.

_Rach_. Here it is brother, I pray you stay not long;

Guesse[7] will come in, 'tis almost supper time.

[_Ex. Ra_.

_Mer_. Let others suppe, ile make a bloudier feast

Then ever yet was drest in _Merryes_ house.

Be like thy selfe then, have a merrie hart,

Thou shalt have gold to mend thy povertie,

And after this live ever wealthilie.

_Then Merry must passe to Beeches shoppe,

who must sit in his shop, and Winchester

his boy stand by: Beech reading_.

What, neighbour _Beech_, so godly occupied?

_Beech_. I, maister _Merry_; it were better reade,

Then meditate on idle fantasies.

_Mer_. You speake the trueth; there is a friend or two

Of yours making merry in my house,

And would desire to have your company.

_Beech_. Know you their names?

_Mer_. No truely, nor the men.

I never stoode to question them of that,

But they desire your presence earnestlie.

_Beech_. I pray you tell them that I cannot come,

Tis supper time, and many will resort

For ware at this time, above all other times;

Tis Friday night besides, and Bartholomew eve,

Therefore good neighbour make my just excuse.

_Mer_. In trueth they told me that you should not stay,

Goe but to drinke, you may come quick againe,--

But not and if my hand and hammer hold. [_(To the) people_.

_Beech_. I am unwilling, but I do not care,

And if I go to see the Company.

_Mer_. Come quickly then, they think we stay too long.

_Beech_. Ile cut a peece of cheese to drink withall.

_Mer_. I, take the farewell of your cutting knife,

Here is a hand shall helpe to cut your throate,

And give my selfe a fairing[8] from your chest.--

What are you ready, will you goe along?

_Beech_. I, now I am; boy, looke you tend the shoppe;

If any aske, come for me to the _Bull_.

I wonder who they are that aske for me.

_Mer_. I know not that, you shall see presentlie.

Goe up those staires, your friends do stay above.--

Here is that friend shall shake you by the head,

And make you stagger ere he speake to you.

_Then being in the upper Rome Merry strickes

him in the head fifteene times_.

Now you are safe, I would the boy were so;

But wherefore wish I, for he shall not live?

For if he doe, I shall not live myselfe.

[_Merry wiped [sic] his face from blood_.

Lets see what mony he hath in his purse.

Masse heres ten groates, heres something for my pains.

But I must be rewarded better yet.

_Enter Rachell and Harry Williams_.

_Wil_. Who was it, _Rachell_, that went up the staires?

_Rach_. It was my brother, and a little man

Of black complexion, but I know him not.

_Wil_. Why do you not then carry up a light,

But suffer them to tarry in the darke?

_Rach_. I had forgot, but I will beare one up. [_Exit up_.

_Wil_. Do so, I prethee; he will chide anon. [_Exit_.

[_Rachell speaketh to her Brother_.

_Rach_. Oh brother, brother, what have you done?

_Mer_. Why, murtherd one that would have murtherd me.

_Rach_. We are undone, brother, we are undone.

What shall I say, for we are quite undone?

_Mer_. Quiet thy selfe, sister; all shalbe well.

But see in any case you do not tell,

This deede to _Williams_ nor to any one.

_Rach_. No, no, I will not; was't not maister _Beech_?

_Mer_. It was, it is, and I will kill his man, [_Exit Rach_.

Or in attempting doe the best I can.

_Enter Williams and Rachell_.

_Wil_. What was the matter that you cride so lowde?

_Rach_. I must not tell you, but we are undone.

_Wil_. You must not tell me, but we are undone!

Ile know the cause wherefore we are undone. [_Exit up_.

_Rach_. Oh would the thing were but to doe againe!

The thought thereof doth rent my hart in twaine. [_She goes up_.

_Williams to Merry above_.

_Wil_. Oh maister, maister, what have you done?

_Mer_. Why slaine a knave that would have murtherd me;

Better to kill, then to be kild my selfe.

_Wil_. With what? wherewith? how have you slaine the man?

_Mer_. Why, with this hammer I knockt out his braines.

_Wil_. Oh it was beastly so to butcher him.

If any quarrell were twixt him and you,

You should have bad him meete you in the field,

Not like a coward under your owne roofe

To knock him downe as he had bin an oxe,

Or silly sheepe prepard for slaughter house.

The Lord is just, and will revenge his blood,

On you and yours for this extremitie.

I will not stay an hower within your house,

It is the wickedst deed that ere was done.

_Mer_. Oh, sir, content your selfe, all shall be well;

Whats done already cannot be undone.

_Rach_. Oh would to God, the deed were now to do,

And I were privie to your ill intent,

You should not do it then for all the world.

But prethie, _Harry_, do not leave the house,

For then suspition will arise thereof,

And if the thing be knowne we are undone.

_Wil_. Forsake the house! I will not stay all night,

Though you will give the wealth of Christendome.

_Mer_. But yet conceale it, for the love of God;

If otherwise, I know not what to do.

_Wil_. Here is my hand, ile never utter it;

Assure your selfe of that, and so farewell.

_Mer_. But sweare to me, as God shall help thy soule,

Thou wilt not tell it unto any one.

_Wil_. I will not sweare, but take my honest worde,

And so farewell. My soule assureth me [_Exit Merry and Rach_.

God will revenge this damn'd iniquitie.

What shall become of me unhappie wretch?

I dare not lodge within my Maisters house,

For feare his murthrous hand should kill me too.

I will go walke and wander up and downe,

And seeke some rest, untill the day appeare.

At the _Three Cranes_,[9] in some Haye loft ile lye,

And waile my maisters comming miserie.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE IV.]

_Enter Fallerio solus_.

_Fall_. I have possession of my brothers goods;

His tennants pay me rent, acknowledge me

To be their Landlord; they frequent my house,

With Turkeys, Capons, Pigeons, Pigges and Geese,

And all to game my favour and goodwill.

His plate, his iewels, hangings, household stuffe,

May well beseeme to fit a demie King;

His stately buildings, his delightfull walkes,

His fertile meadowes, and rich ploughed lands,

His well-growne woods and stor'd fishing ponds,

Brings endlesse wealth, besides continuall helpe,

To keepe a good and hospitable house:

And shall I ioy these pleasures but a time?

Nay brother, sister, all shall pardon me,

Before ile sell my selfe to penurie.

The world doth know thy brother but resigned

The lands and goods untill his sonne attain'de

To riper years to weld [_sic_] and governe them.

Then openly thou canst not do him wrong,

He living: theres the burthen of the song.

Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great

And heavie burthen, that the boy should live

And thrust me from this height of happinesse,

That I will not indure so heavie waight,

But shake it off, and live at libertie,

Free from the yoake of such subjection.

The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne,

Before ile part with my possession.

Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice,

How I may best dispatch this serious cause.--

Hoe, sir, _Allenso_!

_Alle_. Father.

_Fall_. Hearken, sonne.

I must intreate your furtherance and advise

About a thing that doth concerne us neere.

First tell me how thou doost affect in heart

Little _Pertillo_, thy dead Unckles sonne.

_Allen_. So well, good father, that I cannot tell,

Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;

And yet if that my heart were calde to count,

I thinke it would surrender me to death,

Ere young _Pertillo_ should sustain a wrong.

_Fall_. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde

Within your heart, that you affect it so?

_Allen_. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,

Of his dead father, gives such store of sap

Unto this tree of my affection

That it will never wither till I dye.

_Fall_. But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus,

Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.

_Allen_. His love dooth not estrange me from my selfe,

But doth confirme my strength with multitudes

Of benefits his love will yeelde to me.

_Fall_. Beware to foster such pernicious snakes

Within thy bosome, which will poyson thee.

_Allen_. He is a Dove, a childe, an innocent,

And cannot poyson, father, though he would.

_Fall_. I will be plainer: know, _Pertillos_ life,

Which thou doost call a dove, an innocent,

A harmlesse childe, and, and I know not what,

Will harm thee more, than any Serpent can,

I, then the very sight of Basiliskes.

_Allen_. Father you tell me of a strange discourse.

How can his life produce such detriment,

As Basiliskes, whose only sight is death?

_Fall_. Hearken to me, and I will tell thee how;

Thou knowst his fathers goods, his houses, lands,

Have much advaunc'd our reputation,

In having but their usage for a time.

If the boy live, then like to sencelesse beasts,

Like longd-eard Asses and riche-laden Mules,

We must resign these treasures to a boye,

And we like Asses feede on simple haye:

Make him away, they shall continue ours

By vertue of his fathers Testament,--

The iewels, castles, medowes, houses, lands,

Which thy small cozen should defeate thee of,

Be still thine owne, and thou advance thy selfe,

Above the height of all thine Auncestours.

_Allen_. But if I mount by murther and deceite,

Iustice will thrust aspiring thoughts belowe,

And make me caper for to breake my neck,

After some wofull lamentation

Of my obedience to unlawfulnesse.

I tell you plaine, I would not have him dye,

Might I enjoy the _Soldans_ Emperie.

_Fall_. What, wilt thou barre thy selfe of happinesse?

Stop the large streame of pleasures which would flowe,

And still attend on thee like Servingmen?

Preferre the life of him that loves thee not

Before thine owne and my felicitie?

_Allen_. Ide rather choose to feede on carefulnesse,

To ditche, to delve, and labour for my bread,

Nay rather choose to begge from doore to doore,

Then condiscend to offer violence

To young _Pertillo_ in his innocence.

I know you speake, to sound what mightie share

_Pertillo_ hath in my affection.

_Fall_. In faith I do not; therefore, prethie, say,

Wilt thou consent to have him made away?

_Allen_. Why, then in faithe I am ashamde to think,

I had my being from so foule a lumpe

Of adulation and unthankfulnesse.

Ah, had their dying praiers no availe

Within your hart? no, damnd extorcion

Hath left no roome for grace to harbor in!

Audacious sinne, how canst thou make him say

Consent to make my brothers sonne away?

_Fall_. Nay if you ginne to brawle, withdrawe your selfe,

But utter not the motion[10] that I made,

As you love me, or do regarde your life.

_Allen_. And as you love my safetie and your soule,

Let grace and feare of God, such thoughts controule.

_Fall_. Still pratling! let your grace and feare alone,

And leave me quickly to my private thoughts,

Or with my sword ile open wide a gate,

For wrath and bloudie death to enter in.

_Allen_. Better you gave me death and buriall,

Then such foule deeds should overthrow us all.

_Fall_. Still are you wagging that rebellious tounge!

Ile dig it out for Crowes to feede upon,

If thou continue longer in my sight. [_Exit Allenso_.

He loves him better then he loves his life!

Heres repetition of my brothers care,

Of sisters chardge, of grace, and feare of God.

Feare dastards, cowards, faint hart runawayes!

Ile feare no coulours[11] to obteine my will,

Though all the fiends in hell were opposite.

Ide rather loose mine eye, my hand, my foote,

Be blinde, wante senses, and be ever lame,

Then be tormented with such discontent

This resignation would afflict me with.

Be blithe, my boy, thy life shall sure be done,

Before the setting of the morrowe sunne.

[_Exit_.

_Enter Avarice and Homicide bloody_.

_Hom_. Make hast, runne headlong to destruction!

I like thy temper that canst change a heart

From yeelding flesh to Flinte and Adamant.

Thou hitst it home, where thou doost fasten holde;

Nothing can separate the love of golde.

_Ava_. Feare no relenting, I dare pawne my soule,

(And thats no gadge, it is the divels due)

He shall imbrew his greedie griping hands

In the dead bosome of the bloodie boy,

And winde himselfe, his sonne, and harmlesse wife,

In endlesse foldes of sure destruction.

Now, _Homicide_, thy lookes are like thyselfe,

For blood and death are thy companions.

Let my confounding plots but goe before,

And thou shalt wade up to the chin in gore.

_Homi_. I finde it true, for where thou art let in,

There is no scruple made of any sinne;

The world may see thou art the roote of ill,

For but for thee poore _Beech_ had lived still.

[_Exeunt_.

[ACT THE SECOND.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Rachell and Merry_.

_Rach_. Oh my deare brother, what a heap of woe,

Your rashnesse hath powrd downe upon your head!

Where shall we hide this trumpet of your shame,

This timelesse ougly map of crueltie?

Brother, if _Williams_ do reveale the truth,

Then brother, then, begins our sceane of ruthe.

_Mer_. I feare not _Williams_, but I feare the boy,

Who knew I fetcht his maister to my house.

_Rach_. What, doth the boy know whereabouts you dwell?

_Mer_. I, that tormentes me worse than panges of hell:--

He must be slaine to, else hele utter all.

_Rach_. Harke, brother, harke, me thinkes I here on[12] call.

_Mer_. Go downe and see; pray God my man keep close;

If he prove long-tongd then my daies are done.

The boy must die, there is no helpe at all;

For on his life my verie life dependes.

Besides I cannot compasse what I would,

Unlesse the boy be quicklie made away.

This that abridgde his haplesse maisters daies,

Shall leave such sound memorials one [_sic_] his head,

That he shall quite forget who did him harme,

Or train'd his master to this bloodie feast.--

Why, how now, _Rachell_? who did call below?

_Enter Rachell_.

_Rach_. A maide that came to have a pennie loafe.

_Mer_. I would a pennie loafe cost me a pound,

Provided _Beeches_ boy had eate his last.

_Rach_. Perchance the boy doth not remember you.

_Mer_. It may be so,--but ile remember him. [_To people_.

And send him quicklie with a bloodie scrowle,

To greete his maister in another world.

_Rach_. Ile go to _Beeches_ on a faind excuse,

To see if he will ask me for his maister.

_Mer_. No, get you up, you shall not stir abroade,

And when I call, come quicklie to the dore.

_Rach_. Brother, or that, or any thing beside,

To please your mind, or ease your miserie. [_Exit_.

_Mer_. I am knee-deepe, ile wade up to the wast,

To end my hart of feare, and to atteine

The hoped end of my intention.

But I maie see, if I have eyes to see,

And if my understanding be not blind,

How manie dangers do alreadie waight,

Upon my steppes of bold securitie.

_Williams_ is fled, perchaunce to utter all;

Thats but perchance, naie rather flatlie no.

But should he tell, I can but die a death;

Should he conceale, the boy would utter it;

The boy must die, there is no remedie.

[_The boy sitting at his maisters dore_.

_Win_. I wonder that my maister staies so long;

He had not wont to be abroade so late.

Yonder comes one; I thinke that same is he.

_Mer_. I see the boye sits at his maisters doore.

Or now, or never; _Merry_, stir thy selfe,

And rid thy hart from feare and jealousie.--

_Thomas Winchester_, go quicklie to your shoppe:

What, sit you still? your maister is at hand.

[_When the boy goeth into the shoppe Merrie striketh six blowes

on his head & with the seaventh leaves the hammer sticking in his

head; the boy groaning must be heard by a maide who must crye to

her Maister.

[Merrie flieth_.

_Mai_. Oh God I thinke theres theeves in _Beeches_ shop.

_Enter one in his shirt and a maide, and comming to Beeches shop

findes the boy murthered_.

_Nei_. What cruell hand hath done so foule a deede,

Thus to bemangle a distressed youth

Without all pittie or a due remorse!

See how the hammer sticketh in his head,

Wherewith this honest youth is done to death!

Speak, honest _Thomas_, if any speach remaine:

What cruell hand hath done this villanie?

He cannot speake, his senses are bereft.

Hoe, neighbour _Loney_! pray come downe with speede,

Your tennant _Beeches_ man is murthered.

_Loney sleeping_. What, would you have some mustard?

_Nei_. Your tennant _Beeches_ man, is murthered.

_Lo_. Whose smothered, I thinke you lack your wit

What, neighbor? what make[13] you here so late? [_Out at a window_.

_Nei_. I was affrighted by a sodaine crie,

And comming downe saw maister _Beeches_ man,

Thus with a hammer sticking in his head. [_Comes to win_.

_Loney_. Ah wo is me for _Thomas Winchester_,

The truest soule that ever maister had!

Wheres maister _Beech_?

_Neigh_. Nay, no body can tell:

Did you see any running from the dore,

When you lookt out and heard the youngman crie?

_Maid_. Yes I saw two trulie to my thinking, but they ranne away as fast

as their hands could beare them.--By my troth twas so darke I could see

no bodie.--[_To people_. Praie God Maister _Beech_ hath not hurt his boy

in his patience and if he have he must be hangd in his choller.

_Lo_. I dare be sworne he would not strike him thus,

Praie God his Maister be not slaine himselfe.

The night growes late, and we will have this course

Be watch'd all night; to morrow we shall see

Whence sprang this strange uncivill crueltie.

_Nei_. Neighbour good night.

_Lon_. Neighbors all good night.

_Ma_. Praie God I never see so sad a sight.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

_Enter Merry knocking at the doore, and Rachell comes downe_.

_Mer_. Oh sister, sister, now I am pursu'd!

The mightie clamour that the boy did make,

Hath raisde the neighbours round about the street:

So that I know not where to hide my selfe.

_Ra_. What, brother! have you kild _Beeches_ boy?

_Mer_. No, no, not I, but yet another hath.

Come, come to bed, for feare we be descri'd:

The fearfullest night that ever _Merry_ knew!

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter Falleria and two Ruffaines_.

_Fall_. Seeme it not strange, resolved gentlemen,[14]

That I thus privatelie have severed you,

To open secret furrowes of my hart.

Think not I do intend to undermine,

Your passed lives, although you know I am

A man to whom the true unpartiall sworde,

Of equall justice is delivered.

Therefore sweare both, as you respect your soules,

At the last dreadfull sessions held in heaven,

First to conceale, and next to execute,

What I reveale, and shall enioyne you to.

_Both_. So you rewarde us, whatsoever it be,

We vowe performance, and true secrecie.

_Fall_. There go aside, yee seeming semblances,

Of equall justice, and true pietie,

And lay my hearts corrupted Cytadell

Wide open to your thoughts to look into.

Know I am named _Fallerio_ to deceive

The world with shew of truth and honestie,

But yet nor truth, nor honestie abides

Within my thoughts, but falshood, crueltie,

Blood-sucking _Avarice_, and all the sinnes,

That hale men on to bloodie stratagems,

Like to your selves, which care not how you gaine,

By blood, extorcion, falshood, periurie,

So you may have a pleasing recompence: [_They start_.

Start not aside, depart not from your selves,

I know your composition is as mine,

Of bloud, extortion, falshood, periurie,

True-branded with the marke of wickednesse.

1 _Ruffin_. Be not so bitter; we are they indeede,

That would deprive our fathers of their lives,

So we were sure to have a benefit:

I way no more the murthring of a child,

Drag'd from the sucking bosome of his mother,

Then I respect to quaffe a boule of wine,

Unto his health, that dearely loveth me.

2 _Ruff_. Where golde rewardeth, were apparent death,

Before mine eyes, bolde, hartie, visible,

Ide wrastle with him for a deadly fall,

Or I would loose my guerdon promised.

Ide hang my brother for to wear his coate,

That all that saw me might have cause to say,

There is a hart more firme then Adamant,

To practise execrable butcheries.

_Fall_. I know that well, for were I not assur'd

Of your performance in this enterprice,

I would not ope the closet of my brest,

To let you know my close intention.

There is a little boy, an urchin lad,

That stands betweene me and the glorious rayes,

Of my soule-wishing sunne of happinesse.

There is a thicket ten miles from this place,

Whose secret ambush and unused wayes

Doth seeme to ioyne with our conspiracie:

There murther him, and when the deed is done,

Cast his dead body in some durtie ditch,

And leave him for the fowles to feed upon.

Do this, here is two hundreth markes in golde,

To harten on your resolution:

Two hundreth more, after the deed is done,

Ile pay you more for satisfaction.

1 _Ruff_. Swones her's rewards would make one kill himselfe,

To leave his progenie so rich a prize!

Were twentie lives engadged for this coine,

Ide end them all, to have the money mine.

2 _Ruff_. Who would not hazard life nay soule and all,

For such a franke and bounteous pay-maister?

Sblood! what labor is't to kill a boy?

It is but thus, and then the taske is done.

It grieves me most, that when this taske is past,

I have no more to occupie my selfe.

Two hundred markes to give a paltrie stab!

I am impatient till I see the brat.

_Fall_. That must be done with cunning secrecie,

I have devisde to send the boye abroade,

With this excuse, to have him fostered,

In better manners than this place affoords.

My wife, though loath indeed to part with him,

Yet for his good, she will forgoe her joy,

With hope in time to have more firme delights,

Which she expects from young _Pertillos_ life.

2 _Ruff_. Call you him _Pertillo_, faith leave out the _T_.

_Fall_. Why so?

_Ruff_. Because _Perillo_ will remaine,

For he shall surely perish if I live.

What do you call the father of the child?

_Fall_. Why man, he hath no father left alive.

1 _Ruff_.--Yes, such a father, that doth see and know,

How we do plot this little infants woe. [_To the people_.

2 _Ruff_. Why, then his little sonne is much to blame,

That doth not keepe his father company.

When shall we have deliverie of the boy?

_Fall_. To morrow morning by the breake of day:

And you must sweare youle see him safely brought,

Unto the place that I do send him to.

2 _Ruff_. That may we safely, for you meane to send

Him to the wood and there his journey end.[15]

Both soule and limbes shall have a place to rest,

In earth the last, the first in _Abrams_ brest.

_Fall_. Come gentlemen, this night go rest with me,

To morrow end _Pertillos_ tragedie.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE III.]

_Enter Merry and Rachell_.

_Mer_. Sister, now all my golde-expected hopes

Of future good is plainely vanished,

And in her stead grim-visadged dispaire,

Hath tane possession of my guiltie heart.

Desire to gaine began this desperate acte;

Now plaine apparance of destruction,

Of soule and body, waights upon my sinne.

Although we hide our sinnes from mortall men,

Whose glasse of knowledge is the face of man,

The eye of heaven beholdes our wickednesse,

And will no doubt revenge the innocent,

_Rach_. Ah, do not so disconsolate your selfe,

Nor adde new streames of sorrow to your griefe,

Which like a spring tide over-swels the bankes,

Least you do make an inundation

And so be borne away with swiftest tides

Of ugly feare and strong dispairing thoughts.

I am your sister; though a silly Maide,

Ile be your true and faithfull comforter.

_Mer_. _Rachell_, I see thy love is infinite,

And sorrow hath so borne my thoughts away,

That I had almost quite forgot my selfe.

Helpe me, deare sister, to convey from hence

The spectacle of inhumanitie.

_Rach_. Whether would you convey this lumpe of dust

Untimely murthered by your lucklesse hand?

_Mer_. To the lowe roome, where we will cover it,

With Fagots, till the evening doe approche:

In the meane time I will bethinke my selfe,

How I may best convey it foorth of doores;

For if we keepe it longer in the house,

The savour will be felt throughout the streete,

Which will betray us to destruction.

Oh what a horror brings this beastlinesse,

This chiefe of sinnes, this self-accusing crime

Of murther! now I shame to know my selfe,

That am estrang'd so much from that I was,

True, harmlesse, honest, full of curtesie,

Now false, deceitfull, full of injurie.

Hould thou his heeles, ile bear his wounded head:

Would he did live, so I myself were dead!

[_Bring down the body, and cover it over with Faggots himselfe_.

_Rach_. Those little stickes, do hide the murthred course,

But stickes, nor ought besides, can hide the sinne.

He sits on high, whose quick all-seeing eye,

Cannot be blinded by mans subtilties.

_Mer_. Look every where, can you discerne him now?

_Rach_. Not with mine eye, but with my heart I can.

_Mer_. That is because thou knowest I laide him there:

To guiltinesse each thought begetteth feare.

But go, my true, though wofull comforter,

Wipe up the blood in every place above,

So that no drop be found about the house:

I know all houses will be searcht anon.

Then burne the clothes, with which you wipe the ground

That no apparant signe of blood be found.

_Rach_. I will, I will; oh, would to God I could

As cleerely wash your conscience from the deed

As I can cleanse the house from least suspect

Of murthrous deed, and beastly crueltie!

_Mer_. Cease to wish vainely, let us seeke to save

Our names, our fames, our lives and all we have.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE IV.]

_Enter three or foure neighbours together_.

1 _Neigh_. Neighbours, tis bruted all about the towne

That _Robert Beech_, a honest Chaundelor,

Had his man deadly wounded yester night,

At twelve a clock, when all men were a sleepe.

2. Where was his maister, when the deed was done?

3. No man can tell, for he is missing to,

Some men suspect that he hath done the fact,

And that for feare the man is fled away;

Others, that knew his honest harmlesse life,

Feare that himselfe is likewise made away.

4. Then let commaundement every where be given,

That sinkes and gutters, privies, crevises,

And every place where blood may be conceald,

Be throughly searcht, swept, washt, and neerely sought,

To see if we can finde the murther out.

And least that _Beech_ be throwne into the _Thames_,

Let charge be given unto the watermen

That, if they see the body of a man,

Floting in any place about the _Thames_,

That straight they bring it unto _Lambert Hill_,

Where _Beech_ did dwell when he did live in health.

1 _Neigh_. Ile see this charge performd immediatly.

4. Now let us go to Maister _Beeches_ shop, [_Exit_.

To see if that the boy can give us light,

Of those suspitions which this cause doth yeeld.

2. This is the house; call Maister _Loney_ forth.

3. Hoe, Maister _Loney_! doth the boy yet live?

_Enter Loney_.

Or can he utter who hath done him wrong.

_Lo_. He is not dead but hath a dying life,

For neither speech, nor any sense at all,

Abideth in the poore unhappie youth.

4. Here [_sic_] you of anie where his Maister is?

_Lo_. No, would we could; we all, that knew his life,

Suspect him not for any such offence.

4. Bring forth the boy, that we may see his wounds.

[_Bringes him forth in a chaire with a hammer sticking

in his head_.

What say the Surgeons to the youngmans woundes?

_Lo_. They give him over, saying everie wound,

Of sixe, whereof theres seav'n in his head,

Are mortall woundes and all incurable.

[_They survey his woundes_.

_Enter Merrie and Williams_.

_Mer_. How now, good _Harry_, hast thou hid my fault?

The boy that knew I train'd his Maister forth,

Lies speechlesse, and even at the point of death.

If you prove true, I hope to scape the brunt.

_Will_. Whie, feare not me, I have conceal'd it yet,

And will conceale it, have no doubt of me.

_Mer_. Thanks, gentle _Harry_, thou shalt never lacke;

But thou and I will live as faithfull friendes,

And what I have, shalbe thine owne to use.

There is some monie for to spend to-day,

I know you meane to goe and see the faire.

_Will_. I faine would go, but that I want a cloake.

_Mer_. Thou shalt not want a cloake, or ought beside,

So thou wilt promise to be secret. [_Gives him his cloake_.

Here, take my Cloake, ile weare my best my selfe.

But where did you lie this last night?

_Wil_. At the _three Cranes_, in a Carmans hay loft,

But ile have better lodging soone at night.

_Mer_. Thou wilt be secret. I will go and see, [_Exit Willi_.

What stir they keepe about _Beeches_ shop,

Because I would avoyde suspition. [_Go to them_.

God save you, Gentlemen! is this the boy

That is reported to be murthered?

4. He is not dead outright, but pleas'd it God,

Twere better he had left this wicked world,

Then to live thus in this extremitie.

_Mer_. A cruell hand no doubt that did the deede.

Whie pull you not the hammer from his head?

4. That must not be before the youth be dead,

Because the crowner and his quest may see,

The manner how he did receive his death.

Beare hence the bodie, and endevor all,

To finde them out that did the villanie.

[_Exeunt omnes: manet Merrie_.

_Mer_. Do what you can, cast all your wits about,

Rake kennells, gutters, seeke in everie place,

Yet I will overgoe your cunning heads,

If _Williams_ and my sister hold their tongues.

My neighbours holdes not me in least suspect,

Weighing of my former conversation.

Were _Beeches_ boy well conveid awaie,

Ide hope to overblow this stormie day.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE V.]

_Enter Falleria, Sostrata, Allenso, Pertillo,

and two Murtherers booted_.

_Fall_. Now little cooze, you are content to goe,

From me your Unckle and your loving Aunt,

Your faithfull cozen, and your dearest friendes:

And all to come to be a skilfull man,

In learned artes and happy sciences?

_Per_, I am content, because it pleaseth you.

My father bid I should obey your will,

And yeelde my selfe to your discretion:

Besides my cozen gave me yesternight,

A prettie nag to ride to _Padua_.

Of all my friends _Allenso_ loves me best.

_Fall_. I thinke thou art inspir'd with prophesie: [_To the people_.

He loves thee better then I would he did.--

Why, wherefore think you so, my prettie Nephew?

_Per_. Because he taught me how to say my prayers,

To ride a horse, to start the fearfull hare.

He gave this dagger to me yester night,

This little Ring, and many pretie things;

For which, kind cooze, I rest your true debtor,

And one day I will make you recompence.

_Fall_. I, with thy lands and goods thou leav'st behinde.

_Allen_. Pray, father, let me go along with him.--

Now, by the Saviour of my sinfull soule, [_To the people_.

I do not like those fellowes countenance.

_Fall_. Sonne be content, weele go a seavenight hence,

And see him in his universitie weedes.

These will conduct him safely to the place;

Be well assured they'l have a care of him--

That you shall never see _Pertillo_ more. [_To the people_.

_Allen_. Father, I pray you to withdraw your selfe,

Ide have a word or two in secresie.

[_They speake together_.

_Sost_. Come living image of thy dead mother,

And take my loving farewell, ere we part.

I love thee dearly for thy fathers sake,

But for thy mothers dote with jealousie.

Oh I do feare, before I see thy face,

Or thou or I shall taste of bitternesse.

Kisse me, sweete boy, and, kissing, folde thine Aunte

Within the circle of thy little armes.

I neede not feare, death cannot offer wrong;

The majestie of thy presaging face,

Would vanquish him, though nere so terrible.

The angry Lionesse that is bereav'd

Of her imperious crew of forrest kings,

Would leave her furie, and defend thee safe

From Wolves, from Panthers, Leopards, and Shee Beares,

That live by rapine, stealth and crueltie.

Therefore to God I do commend thy state,

Who will be sure to guard thee tenderly.

And now to you, that carry hence this wealth,

This precious Jewell, this unprized good,

Have a regarde to use him carefully,

When he is parted from that serious care,

Which was imployde for his securitie.

I urge it not, that I misdoubt your truth;

I hope his Unckle doth perswade himselfe

You will be courteous, kinde, and affable.

Ther's some rewarde for hoped carefulnesse.

_Allen_. Now by my soule I do suspect the men,

Especially the lower of the two:

See, what a hollow discontented looke

He casts, which brings apparant cause of feare:

The other, though he seeme more courteous,

Yet dooth his lookes presadge this thought in me.

As if he scorn'd to thinke on courtesie.

_Fall_. Upon my life, my sonne you are to blame,

The gentlemen are honest, vertuous,

And will protect _Pertillo_ happily.

These thoughts proceed out of aboundant love,

Because you grieve to leave his company.

If ought betide him otherwise then well,

Let God require due vengaunce on my head,

And cut my hopes from all prosperitie.

_Allen_. A heavie sentence, full of wondrous feare:

I cannot choose but credit such a vowe.

Come hether then, my joy, my chiefest hopes,

My second selfe, my earthly happinesse,

Lend me thy little prety cherry lip,

To kisse me, cozen; lay thy little hand

Upon my cheeke, and hug me tenderly.

Would the cleere rayes of thy two glorious sunnes

Could penetrate the corners of my heart,

That thou might see how much I tender thee.

My friends, beholde, within this little bulke

Two perfect bodyes are incorporate;

His life holdes mine, his heart conteines my hart,

His every lim containes my every part;

Without his being I can never be,

He being dead, prepare to bury me.

Oh thou immortall mover of the spheares

Within their circled revolusions,

Whose glorious image this small orphant beares,

Wrought by thy all-sufficient majestie,

Oh never suffer any wicked hand

To harme this heavenly workmanship of thine,

But let him live, great God, to honor thee

With vertuous life and spotlesse pietie!

_Per_. Cease, my kind cooze; I cannot choose but weepe,

To see your care of my securitie.

_Allen_.--Knewst thou my reason, that perswades my hart,

Thou wouldst not wonder, why I grieve to part:

But yet I would suspect my fathers vowe,

Did any other make it by your leave.

_Fall_. What have you done? this lothnesse to depart,

Seemes you were trained up in tediousnesse,

Thou knowst not when and where to make an end.

Take him my friends, I know you will discharge

The hope and trust that I repose in you.

_Both_. Assure your selfe, in every circumstance.

_Fall_. Then to your horses quicklie, speedily,

Else we shall put our fingers in the eye,

And weepe for kindnesse till tomorrow morne.

_Per_. Farewell good Unckle, Aunt, and loving cooze.

[_Sostratus [sic] kisseth the boy weeping_.

_Allen_. Farewell.--I fear me everlastinglie.

[_Exeunt Sostratus and Allenso_.

[_One of the Murtherers takes Falleria by the sleeve_.

1 _mu_. You meane not now to have him murthered?

_Fall_. Not murthered, what else? kill him, I say:

But wherefore makes thou question of my will?

_Mur_. Because you wisht that God should be revenged,

If any ill betide the innocent.

_Fall_. Oh that was nothing but to blind the eyes

Of my fond sonne, which loves him too too well.

_Mer_. It is enough, it shall be surely done.

[_Exeunt om_.

[SCENE VI.]

_Enter Merry and Rachel with a bag_.

_Mer_. What, hast thou sped? have you bought the bag?

_Rach_. I, brother, here it is; what is't to do?

_Mer_. To beare hence _Beeches_ body in the night.

_Rach_. You cannot beare so great a waight your selfe,

And tis no trusting of another man.

_Mer_. Yes well enough, as I will order it.

Ile cut him peece-meale; first his head and legs

Will be one burthen; then the mangled rest,

Will be another, which I will transport,

Beyond the water in a Ferryboate,

And throw it into _Paris-garden_ ditch,[16]

Fetch me the chopping knife, and in the meane

Ile move the fagots that do cover him.

[_Remove the Fagots_.

_Rach_. Oh can you finde in hart to cut and carve,

His stone-colde flesh, and rob the greedy grave,

Of his dissevered blood-besprinkled lims?

_Mer_. I, mary can I:--fetch the chopping knife.

_Rach_. This deed is worse, then when you took his life. [_Exit_.

_Mer_. But worse, or better, now it must be so,

Better do thus than feele a greater woe.

_Enter Rach_.

Here is the knife, I cannot stay to see

This barbarous deed of inhumanitie. [_Exit Rachel_.

[_Merry begins to cut the body, and bindes the armes

behinde his back with Beeches garters; leaves out the

body, covers the head and legs againe_.

_Enter Truth_.

Yee glorious beames of that bright-shining lampe

That lights the starre-bespangled firmament,

And dimnes the glimmering shadowes of the night,

Why doost thou lend assistance to this wretch,

To shamble forth with bold audacitie

His lims, that beares thy makers semblance!

All you the sad spectators of this Acte,

Whose harts do taste a feeling pensivenesse

Of this unheard of, savadge massacre,

Oh be farre of to harbour such a thought

As this audacious murtherer put in ure![17]

I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim,

And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares,

But though this sight bring surfet to the eye,

Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18]

That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say,

Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe?

His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne;

Ile waile his woe before his woe begin. [_Exit Trueth_.

_Mer_. Now will I high me to the water side,

And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche,

Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waight

That it doth almost presse me downe with feare.

[ACT THE THIRD.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Rachell_.

Harke, _Rachell_, I will crosse the water straight

And fling this middle mention of a man

Into some ditch; then high me home againe,

To rid my house of that is left behinde.

_Rach_. Where have you laid the legs & battered head?

_Mer_. Under the fagots where it lay before.

Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.

_Rach_. My heart will not endure to handle it,

The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,

_Mer_. Ile do't my selfe; onely drie up the blood,

And burne the clothes as you have done before. [_Exit_.

_Rach_. I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell,

Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinne

With clensing teares of true contrition.

Ah, did not nature oversway my will,

The world should know this plot of damned ill.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo_.

_Per_. I am so wearie in this combrous wood,

That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 _Mur_. What were we best? to kill him unawares,

Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 _Mur_. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge,

And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 _Mur_. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere,

And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart

To stab it home for harbouring such a thought.

I see no reason whie I should relent;

It is a charitable vertuous deede,

To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 _Mur_. Such charitie will never have reward,

Unlesse it be with sting of conscience;

And thats a torment worse than Sisipus,

That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 _Mur_. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 _Mur_. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 _Mur_. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,

But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab;

To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes,

To see what shift theile make to scramble home;

Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport

Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse.

If with a grace I can perform such pranckes,

My hart will give mine agents many thankes.

2 _Mur_. Then God forbid I should consort my selfe

With one so far from grace and pietie,

Least being found within thy companie,

I should be partner of thy punishment.

1 _Mur_. When wee have done what we have vowed to do,

My hart desires to have no fellowship

With those that talk of grace or godlinesse.

I nam'd not God, unleast twere with an othe,

Sence the first hour that I could walk alone;

And you that make so much of conscience,

By heaven thou art a damned hipocrite,

For thou hast vow'd to kill that sleeping boy,

And all to gaine two hundreth markes in gold.

I know this purenesse comes of pure deceit,

To draw me from from the murthering of the child,

That you alone might have the benefit.

You are too shallow; if you gull me so,

Chop of my head to make a Sowsing-tub,

And fill it full of tripes and chitterlinges.

2 _Mur_. That thou shalt see my hart is far from fraud,

Or vaine illusion in this enterprize,

Which doth import the safetie of our soules,

There take my earnest of impietie. [_Give him his mony_.

Onely forbeare to lay thy ruder handes

Upon the poore mistrustlesse tender child.

As for our vowes, feare not their violence;

God will forgive on hartie penitence.

1 _Mur_. Thou Eunuch, Capon, Dastard, fast and loose,

Thou weathercocke of mutabilitie,

White-livered Paisant, wilt thou vowe and sweare,

Face and make semblance with thy bagpipe othes

Of that thou never meanst to execute?

Pure cowardice, for feare to cracke thy necke

With the huge Caos of thy bodies waight,

Hath sure begot this true contrition.

Then fast and pray, and see if thou canst winne,

A goodlie pardon for thy hainous sinne.

As for the boy, this fatall instrument

Was mark'd by heaven to cut his line[20] of life,

And must supplie the knife of _Atropos_,

And if it doe not, let this maister-piece

(Which nature lent the world to wonder at)

Be slit in Carbonadoes[21] for the jawes

Of some men-eating hungrie Canniball.

By heaven ile kill him onely for this cause,

For that he came of vertuous Auncestors.

2 _m_. But by that God which made that wondrous globe,

Wherein is seene his powerfull dietie,[22]

Thou shalt not kill him maugre all thy spight.

Sweare, and forsweare thyselfe ten thousand times.

Awake _Pertillo_, for thou art betrai'd;

This bloody slave intends to murther thee. [_Draw both_.

1 _mur_. Both him, and all, that dare to rescue him.

_Per_. Wherefore? because I slept without your leave?

Forgive my fault, ile never sleepe againe.

2 _Mur_. No Child, thy wicked Unckle hath suborn'd

Both him and me to take thy life away,

Which I would save, but that this hellish impe

Will not content to spare thy guiltlesse blood.

_Per_. Why should _Falleria_ seeke to have my life?

2 _mur_. The lands and goods, thy father left his sonne,

Do hale thee on to thy destruction.

_Per_. Oh needy treasure, harme-begetting good!

That safety[23] should procure the losse of blood!

2 _mur_. Those lands and goods, thy father got with paine,

Are swords wherewith his little sonne is slaine.

1 _mu_. Then let our swords let out his guiltlesse life.

_Per_. Sweete, sowre, kinde, cruell, hold thy murthering knife,

And here [_sic_] me speake, before you murther me.

2 _mu_. Feare not, sweet child, he shall not murther thee.

1 _mu_. No, but my sword shall let his puddings forth.

_Per_. First here me speake, thou map of Butcherie:

Tis but my goods and lands my Unckle seekes;

Having that safely, he desires no more.

I do protest by my dead parents soules,

By the deare love of false _Fallerios_ sonne,

Whose heart, my heart assures me, will be griev'd

To heare his fathers inhumanitie,

I will forsake my countrie, goods, and lands,

I, and my selfe will even change my selfe,

In name, in life, in habit, and in all,

And live in some farre-moved continent,

So you will spare my weake and tender youth,

Which cannot entertaine the stroake of death

In budding yeares and verie spring of life.

1 _Mur_. Leave of these bootlesse protestations,

And use no ruth-enticing argumentes,

For if you do, ile lop you lim by lim,

And torture you for childish eloquence.

2 _Mur_. Thou shalt not make his little finger ake.

1 _Mur_. Yes, every part, and this shall proove it true.

[_Runnes Perillo in with his sworde_.

_Per_. Oh I am slaine, the Lord forgive thy fact!

And give thee grace to dye with penitence. [_Dyeth_.

2 _Mur_. A treacherous villaine, full of cowardise!

Ile make thee know that thou hast done amisse.

1 _m_. Teach me that knowledge when you will or dare.

[_They fight and kill one another; the relenter

having some more life, and the other dyeth_.

1 _mur_. Swoones, I am peppered, I had need have salt,

Or else to morrow I shall yeeld a stincke,

Worse then a heape of dirty excrements.

Now by this Hilt, this golde was earn'd too deare:

Ah, how now death, wilt thou be conquerour?

Then vengeance light on them that made me so,

And ther's another farewell ere I goe.

[_Stab the other murtherer againe_.

2 _mur_. Enough, enough, I had my death before.

[_A hunt within_.

_Enter the Duke of Padua, Turqualo, Vesuvio, Alberto, &c_.

_Duke_. How now my Lords, was't not a gallant course,

Beleeve me sirs, I never saw a wretch,

Make better shift to save her little life.

The thickets full of buskes,[24] and scratching bryers,

A mightie dewe,[25] a many deepe mouth'd hounds,

Let loose in every place to crosse their course,--

And yet the Hare got cleanly from them all.

I would not for a hundred pound in faith,

But that she had escaped with her life;

For we will winde a merry hunters home,

And starte her once again tomorrow morne.

_Turq_. In troth my Lord, the little flocked[26] hound,

That had but three good legs to further him,

Twas formost still, and surer of his sent,

Then any one in all the crie besides.

_Vesu_. But yet _Pendragon_ gave the Hare more turnes.

_Alber_. That was because he was more polliticke,

And eyed her closely in her coverts still:

They all did well, and once more we will trie,

The subtile creature with a greater crie.

_Enter Allenso, booted_.

_Duke_. But say, what well accomplished Gentleman

Is that that comes into our company?

_Vesu_. I know him well, it is _Fallerios_ sonne,

_Pandynos_ brother (a kinde Gentleman)

That dyed and left his little pretty sonne,

Unto his brother's[27] good direction.

_Duke_. Stand close awhile, and overheare his wordes;

He seemes much over-gone with passion.

_Allen_. Yee timorous thoughts that guide my giddy steps

In unknowne pathes of dreadfull wildernesse,

Why traitor-like do you conspire to holde

My pained heart twixt feare and jealousie?

My too much care hath brought me carelesly,

Into this woody savadge labyrinth,

And I can finde no way to issue out;

Feare hath so dazeled all my better part,

That reason hath forgot discreations art.

But in good time, see where is company.--

Kinde Gentlemen, if you, unlike my selfe,

Are not incumbred with the circling wayes

Of this erronious winding wildernesse,

I pray you to direct me foorth this wood

And showe the pathe that leades to _Padua_.

_Duke_. We all are _Paduans_, and we all intend

To passe forthwith with speed to _Padua_.

_Allen_. I will attend upon you presently. [_See the bodyes_.

_Duke_. Come then away:--but, gentlemen beholde,

A bloody sight, and murtherous spectacle!

2 _Mur_. Oh, God, forgive me all my wickednesse

And take me to eternall happinesse!

_Duke_. Harke one of them hath some small sparke of life,

To kindle knowledge of their sad mishaps.

_Allen_. Ah gratious Lord, I know this wretched child,

And these two men that here lye murthered.

_Vesu_. Do you, _Allenso_?

_Allen_. I, my gracious Lord:

It was _Pertillo_ my dead Unckles sonne.

Now have my feares brought forth this fearefull childe

Of endlesse care, and everlasting griefe!

_Duke_. Lay hands upon _Allenso_, Gentlemen.

Your presence doth confirme you had a share

In the performance of this crueltie.

_Allen_. I do confesse I have so great a share

In this mishap, that I will give him thankes,

That will let foorth my sorrow-wounded soule

From out this goale of lamentation.

_Duke_. Tis now too late to wish for hadiwist.[28]

Had you withheld your hand from this attempt,

Sorrow had never so imprisoned you.

_Allen_. Oh my good Lord, do not mistake my case,

And yet my griefe is sure infallible.

The Lord of heaven can witnesse with my soule,

That I am guiltelesse of your wrong suspect,

But yet not griefelesse that the deed is done.

_Duke_. Nay if you stand to justifie your selfe,

This gentleman whose life dooth seeme to stay,

Within his body till[29] he tell your shame,

Shall testifie of your integritie:

Speake then, thou sad Anatomy of death,

Who were the Agents of your wofulnesse?

2 _Mur_. O be not blinded with a false surmise,

For least my tongue should faile to end the tale

Of our untimely fate-appointed death,

Know young _Allenso_ is as innocent

As is _Fallerio_ guiltie of the crime.

He, he it was, that with foure hundredth markes,

Whereof two hundred he paide presently,

Did hire[30] this damn'd villaine and my selfe

To massacre this harmelesse innocent:

But yet my conscience, toucht with some remorse,

Would faine have sav'd the young _Pertillos_ life,

But he remorselesse would not let him live,

But unawares thrust in his harmelesse brest

That life-bereaving fatall instrument:

Which cruell deede I seeking to revenge,

Have lost my life and paid the slave his due

Rewarde for spilling blood of innocents.

Surprise _Fallerio_, author of this ill;

Save young _Allenso_, he is guiltlesse still. [_Dyeth_.

_Allen_. Oh sweetest honie mixt with bitter gall,

Oh Nightingale combinde with Ravens notes,

Thy speech is like a woodward that should say,--

Let the tree live, but take the root away.

As though my life were ought but miserie,

Having my father slaine for infamie!

_Duke_. What should incite _Fallerio_ to devise,

The overthrowe of this unhappie boy?

_Vesu_. That may be easily guest, my gracious Lord,

To be the lands _Pandino_ left his sonne,

Which, after that the boy were murthered,

Discend to him by due inheritance.

_Duke_. You deeme aright. See, gentlemen, the fruites,

Of coveting to have anothers right.

Oh wicked thought of greedie covetice!

Could neither nature, feare of punishment,

Scandall to wife and children, nor the feare,

Of Gods confounding strict severitie,

Allay the head-strong furie of thy will?

Beware, my friends, to wish unlawfull gaine;

It will beget strange actions full of feare,

And overthrowe the actor unawares.

For first _Fallerios_ life must satisfie

The large effusion of their guiltlesse bloods,

Traind on by him to these extremities;

Next, wife and children must be disposest,

Of lands and goods, and turnde to beggerie;

But most of all, his great and hainous sinne,

Will be an eye-sore to his guiltlesse kinne.

Beare hence away these models of his shame,

And let us prosecute the murtherer

With all the care and diligence we can.

[_Two must be carrying away Pertillo_

_Allen_. Forbeare awhile to beare away my joy,

Which now is vanisht since his life is fled;

And give me leave to wash his deadly wound

With hartie teares, outflowing from those eyes

Which lov'd his sight, more then the sight of heaven.

Forgive me God for this idolatrie!

Thou ugly monster, grim imperious death,

Thou raw-bonde lumpe of foule deformitie,

Reguardlesse instrument of cruell fate,

Unparciall Sergeant, full of treacherie,

Why didst thou flatter my ill-boding thoughts,

And flesh my hopes with vaine illusions?

Why didst thou say, _Pertillo_ should not dye,

And yet, oh yet, hast done it cruelly?

Oh but beholde, with what a smiling cheere,

He intertain'd thy bloody harbinger!

See, thou transformer of a heavenly face

To Ashie palenesse and unpleasing lookes,

That his fair countenance still retaineth grace

Of perfect beauty in the very grave.

The world would say such beauty should not dye;

Yet like a theefe thou didst it cruelly.

Ah, had thy eyes, deepe-sunke into thy head,

Beene able to perceive his vertuous minde,

Where vertue sat inthroned in a chaire,

With awfull grace and pleasing maiestie,

Thou wouldest not then have let _Pertillo_ die,

Nor like a theefe have slaine him cruellie.

Inevitable fates, could you devise,

No means to bring me to this pilgrimage,

Full of great woes and sad calamities,

But that the father should be principall,

To plot the present downfall of the sonne?

Come then kind death and give me leave to die,

Since thou hast slaine _Pertillo_ cruellie.

_Du_. Forbeare, _Allenso_; hearken to my doome,

Which doth concerne thy fathers apprehension.

First we enjoyne thee, upon paine of death,

To give no succour to thy wicked sire,

But let him perrish in his damned sinne,

And pay the price of such a treacherie.

See that with speede the monster be attach'd,

And bring him safe to suffer punishment.

Prevent it not, nor seeke not to delude

The Officers to whom this charge is given;

For if thou doe, as sure as God doth live,

Thy selfe shall satisfie the lawes contempt.

Therefore forward about this punishment.

[_Exeunt omnes: manet Allenso_.

_Al_. Thankes, gratious God, that thou hast left the meanes

To end my soule from this perplexitie.

Not succour him on paine of present death!

That is no paine; death is a welcome guest

To those whose hearts are overwhelm'd with griefe.

My woes are done, I having leave to die

And after death live ever joyfullie. [_Exit_.

_Enter Murther and Covetousnesse_.

_Mur_. Now, _Avarice_, I have well satisfied

My hungrie thoughtes with blood and crueltie;

Now all my melanchollie discontent

Is shaken off, and I am throughlie pleas'd,

With what thy pollicie hath brought to passe.

Yet am I not so throughlie satisfied

Untill I bring the purple actors forth.

And cause them quaffe a bowle of bitternesse,

That father sonne, and sister brother may

Bring to their deathes with most assur'd decay.

_Ava_. That wilbe done without all question,

For thou hast slaine _Allenso_ with the boy,

And _Rachell_ doth not wish to overlive

The sad remembrance of her brothers sinne.

Leave faithfull love to teach them how to dye,

That they may share their kinsfolkes miserie.

[_Exeunt_.

[ACT THE FOURTH.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Merrie and Rachell uncovering the head and legges_.

_Mer_. I have bestow'd a watrie funerall

On the halfe bodie of my butchered friend.

The head and legges Ile leave in some darke place;

I care not if they finde them yea or no.

_Ra_. Where do you meane to leave the head and legs?

_Mer_. In some darke place nere to _Bainardes Castle_.[31]

_Ra_. But doe it closelie that you be not seene;

For all this while you are without suspect.

_Mer_. Take you no thought, Ile have a care of that;

Onelie take heede you have a speciall care

To make no shew of any discontent

Nor use too many words to any one.

[_Puts on his Cloake; taketh up the bag_.

I will returne when I have left my loade.

Be merrie, _Rachell_; halfe the feare is past. [_Exit_.

_Ra_. But I shall never thinke my selfe secure.

This deede would trouble any quiet soule,

To thinke thereof, much more to see it done;

Such cruell deedes can never long be hid,

Although we practice nere so cunningly.

Let others open what I doe conceale;

Lo he is my brother, I will cover it,

And rather dye than have it spoken rife,--

Lo where she goes, betrai'd her brothers life.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter Williams and Cowley_.

_Co_. Why, how now, _Harry_, what should be the cause,

That you are growne so discontent of late?

Your sighes do shew some inward heavinesse;

Your heavy lookes, your eyes brimfull of teares,

Beares testimonie of some secret griefe.

Reveale it, _Harry_; I will be thy friend,

And helpe thee to my poore habillity.

_Wil_. If I am heavie, if I often sigh,

And if my eyes beare recordes of my woe,

Condemne me not, for I have mightie cause,

More then I will impart to any one.

_Co_. Do you misdoubt me, that you dare not tell

That woe to me that moves your discontent?

_Wil_. Good Maister _Cowley_, you were ever kinde,

But pardon me; I will not utter it

To any one, for I have past my worde;

And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.

_Cow_. But those that smother griefe too secretly,

May wast themselves in silent anguishment,

And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,

That all the world can never make it flowe,

Unto the happy hight of former health.

Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe,

To wast thy strength in lamentation,

But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.

_Wil_. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse,

And all the world can never lessen it;

Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse,

Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.

_Cow_. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes,

I love thee not so ill but I will mone

Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.

_Wil_. Nay, if you are so curious to intrude

Your selfe to sorrow, where you have no share,

I will frequent some unfrequented place

Where none shall here nor see my lamentations. [_Exit_.

_Cow_. And I will follow wheresoever thou goe;

I will be a partner of thy helplesse woe.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE III.]

_Enter two Watermen_.

1. _Will_, ist not time we should go to our boates,

And give attendance for this _Bartlemew_ tide?

Folkes will be stirring early in the morning.

2. By my troth I am indifferent whether I go or no. If a fare come,

why so; if not, why so; if I have not their money, they shall have

none of my labour.

1. But we that live by our labours, must give attendance.

But where lyes thy Boate?

2. At _Baynards Castle_ staires.

1. So do's mine, then lets go together.

2. Come, I am indifferent, I care not so much for going; but if I go

with you, why so; if not, why so. [_He falls over the bag_.

Sblood, what rascall hath laide this in my way!

1. A[32] was not very indifferent that did so, but you are so

permentorie, to say, why so, and why so, that every one is glad to do

you iniurie. But lets see: what is it?

[_Taking the Sack by the end, one of the legs and head drops out_.

Good Lord deliver us! a mans legges, and a head with manie wounds!

2. Whats that so much? I am indifferent, yet for mine owne part,

I understand the miserie of it; if you doe, why so, if not, why so.

1. By my troth I understand no other mistery but this:

It is a strange and very rufull sight.

But, prethee, what doost thou conceit of it?

2. In troth I am indifferent, for if I tell you, why so, if not why so.

1. If thou tell me, Ile thanke thee; therefore I prethee tell me.

2. I tell you I am indifferent; but to be plaine with you, I am greeved

to stumble at the hangmans budget.

1. At the hangmans budget? why, this is a sack.

2. And to speake indifferently, it is the hangman's Budget; and because

he thought too much of his labour to set this head upon the bridge, and

the legs upon the gates, he flings them into the streete for men to

stumble at, but If I get him in my boate, Ile so belabour him in a

stretcher, that he had better be stretcht in one of his owne halfepeny

halters. If this be a good conceit, why so; if not, why so.

1. Thou art deceiv'd, this head hath many wounds,

And hoase and shoes remaining on the legs.

_Bull_ always strips all quartered traitors quite.

2. I am indifferent whether you beleeve me or no; these were not worth

taking of, and therefore he left them on. If this be likely why so;

if not, why so.

1. Nay, then I see you growe from worse to worse.

I heard last night, that one neere _Lambert Hill_

Was missing, and his boy was murthered.

It may be this is a part of that same man;

What ere it be, ile beare it to that place.

2. Masse I am indifferent; ile go along with you, if it be so, why so;

if not why so.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE IV.]

_Enter three neighbors knocking at Loneys doore: Loney comes_.

1. Hoe, Maister Loney! here you any newes

What is become of your Tennant _Beech_?

_Lon_. No truely, sir, not any newes at all.

2. What, hath the boy recovered any speach,

To give us light of these suggestions

That do arise upon this accident?

_Lon_. There is no hope he should recover speech;

The wives do say he's ready now to leave

This greevous world, full-fraught with treacherie.

3. Methinkes if _Beech_ himselfe be innocent,

That then the murtherer should not dwell farre off;

The hammer that is sticking in his head,

Was borrowed of a Cutler dwelling by,

But he remembers not who borrowed it:

He is committed that did owe[33] the hammer,

But yet he standes uppon his innocence;

And _Beeches_ absence causeth great suspition.

_Lo_. If _Beech_ be faulty, as I do not thinke,

I never was so much deceiv'd before.

Oh had you knowne his conversation,

You would not have him in suspition.

3. Divels seeme Saints, and in these[34] hatefull times,

Deceite can beare apparraunt signes of trueth,

And vice beare shew of vertues excellence.

_Enter the two Watermen_.

1. Pray is this Maister _Beeches_ house?

_Lo_. My friend this same was maister _Beeches_ shop:

We cannot tell whether he live or no.

1. Know you his head and if I shew it you?

Or can you tell me what hose or shooes he ware,

At that same time when he forsooke the shoppe?

3. What, have you head, and hose, and shooes to show,

And want the body that should use the same?

1. Behold this head, these legges, these hose and shooes,

And see if they were _Beeches_, yea or no.

_Lo_. They are the same; alas, what is become,

Of the remainder of this wretched man!

1 _Wat_. Nay that I know not; onelie these we found,

As we were comming up a narrow lane,

Neere _Baynardes Castle_, where we two did dwell;

And heering that a man was missing hence,

We thought it good to bring these to this place,

3. Thankes, my good friendes; ther's some thing for your paines.

2 _Wat_. We are indifferent, whether you give us anything or nothing;

and if you had not, why so; but since you have, why so.

1 _Wat_. Leave your repining: Sir, we thanke you hartely.

3. Farewell good fellowes.--Neighbour, now be bold: [_Exeunt Watermen_.

They dwell not farre that did this bloodie deed,

As God no doubt will at the last reveale,

Though they conceale it nere so cunninglie.

All houses, gutters, sincks and crevices

Have carefully been sought for, for the blood;

Yet theres no instaunce found in any place.

_Enter a Porter and a Gentleman_.

But who is that that brings a heavy loade,

Behinde him on a painefull porters backe?

_Gen_. Praie, Gentlemen, which call you _Beeches_ shoppe?

2 _Neig_. This is the place; what wold you with the man?

_Gen_. Nothing with him; I heare the man is dead,

And if he be not, I have lost my paines.

_Lo_. Hees dead indeede, but yet we cannot finde

What is become of halfe his hopelesse bodie.

His head and legges are found, but for the rest,

No man can tell what is become of it.

_Gen_. Then I doe thinke I can resolve your doubt

And bring you certain tydings of the rest,

And if you know his doublet and his shirt.

As for the bodie it is so abus'd

That no man can take notice whoes it was.

Set downe this burden of anothers shame.

What, do you know the doublet and the shirt?

[_Ex. Porter_.

_Lo_. This is the doublet, these the seuered limmes,

Which late were ioyned to that mangled trunke:

Lay them together, see if they can make

Among them all a sound and solid man.

3 _neigh_. They all agree, but yet they cannot make

That sound and whole which a remorsles hand

Hath severed with a knife of crueltie.

But say, good sir, where did you finde this out?

_Gent_. Walking betime by _Paris Garden_ ditch,

Having my Water Spaniell by my side,

When we approach'd unto that haplesse place

Where this same trunke lay drowned in a ditch,

My Spaniell gan to sent, to bark, to plunge

Into the water, and came foorth againe,

And fawnd one me, as if a man should say,

Helpe out a man that heere lyes murthered.

At first I tooke delight to see the dog,

Thinking in vaine some game did there lye hid

Amongst the Nettles growing neere the banke;

But when no game, nor anything appear'd,

That might produce the Spaniell to this sport,

I gan to rate and beate the harmlesse Cur,

Thinking to make him leave to follow me;

But words, nor blowes, could moove the dog away,

But still he plung'd, he div'd, he barkt, he ran

Still to my side, as if it were for helpe.

I seeing this, did make the ditch be dragd,

Where then was found this body as you see,

With great amazement to the lookers on.

3. Beholde the mightie miracles of God,

That sencelesse things should propagate their sinne

That are more bestiall farre then beastlinesse

Of any creature most insensible!

2. _Neigh_. Cease we to wonder at Gods wondrous works,

And let us labour for to bring to light

Those masked fiends that thus dishonor him.

This sack is new, and, loe! beholde his marke

Remaines upon it, which did sell the bag.

Amongst the Salters we shall finde it out

When, and to whom, this bloody bag was sold.

3. Tis very likely, let no paines be spar'd,

To bring it out, if it be possible;

Twere pitty such a murther should remaine

Unpunished mongst Turkes and Infidels.

1. _neigh_. Sirs, I do know the man that solde this bag,

And if you please, Ile fetch him presently?

_Gent_. With all our hearts. How say you gentlemen?

Perchance the murther thus may come to light.

3. I pray you do it, we will tarry heere: [_Exit 1. neigh_.

And let the eyes of every passenger

Be satisfied, which may example be

How they commit such dreadfull wickednesse.

_Ent. wom_. And please your maisterships, the boy is dead.

3. _neigh_. Tis very strange that having many wounds

So terrible, so ghastlie; which is more,

Having the hammer sticking in his head;

That he should live and stirre from _Friday_ night,

To _Sunday_ morning, and even then depart,

When that his Maisters mangled course were found.

Bring him foorth too; perchance the murtherers

May have their hearts touched with due remorse,

Viewing their deeds of damned wickednesse.

[_Bring forth the boye and laye him by Beech_.

1 _neigh_. Here is the Salters man that solde the bag.

_Gent_. My friend, how long since did you sell that bag?

And unto whom, if you remember it?

_Sal_. I sould the bag, good sir, but yesterday,

Unto a maide; I do not know her name.

3 _neigh_. Nor where she dwels.

_Sal_. No certeinly.

2 _neigh_. But what apparell had she on her back?

_Sal_. I do not well remember what she wore,

But if I saw her I should know her sure.

3 _neigh_. Go round about to every neighbours house,

And will them shew their maides immediately:

God grant we may finde out the murtherers.

[_Go to one house, and knock at doore, asking_.

Bring forth such maides as are within your house!

1 _housekeeper_. I have but one, ile send her down to you.

3 _neigh_. Is this the maide? [_Come out maide_.

_Salt_. No, sir, this is not she. [_Go to another, &c_.

How many maides do dwell within this house?

2 _house_. Her's nere a woman here, except my wife. [_Go to Merryes_.

3 _neigh_. Whose house is this?

_Lo_. An honest civill mans, cald Maister _Merry_,

Who I dare be sworne, would never do so great a murther;

But you may aske heere to for fashion sake.

[_Rachell sits in the shop_.

3. How now, faire maide, dwels any here but you?

Thou hast too true a face for such a deed.

_Rach_. No, gentle sir; my brother keepes no more.

3 _neigh_. This is not she?

_Salt_. No truly, gentleman.

[_Ex. R_.

3. This will not serve; we cannot finde her out.

Bring in those bodyes, it growes towards night;

God bring these damn'd murtherers at length to light!

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE V.]

_Enter Merry and Rachell_.

_Mer_. Why go the neighbours round about the streete

To every house? what hast thou heard the cause?

_Rach_. They go about with that same Salters man,

Of whom I bought the bag but yesterday,

To see if he can know the maide againe

Which bought it: this I think the very cause.

_Mer_. How were my senses overcome with feare,

That I could not foresee this jeopardy!

For had I brought the bag away with me,

They had not had this meanes to finde it out.

Hide thee above least that the Salters man

Take notice of thee that thou art the maide,

And by that knowledge we be all undone.

_Rach_. That feare is past, I sawe, I spake with him,

Yet he denies that I did buy the bag;

Besides the neighbours have no doubt of you,

Saying you are an honest harmelesse man,

And made enquirie heere for fashion sake.

_Mer_. My former life deserves their good conceits,

Which is not blemisht with this treacherie.

My heart is merier then it was before,

For now I hope the greatest feare is past.

The hammer is denyed, the bag unknowne;

Now there is left no meanes to bring it out,

Unless our selves proove Traitors to our selves.

_Rach_. When saw you _Hary Williams_?

_Me_. Why, to day;

I met him comming home from _Powles Crosse_,

Where he had beene to heare a Sermon.

_Rach_. Why brought you not the man along with you

To come to dinner, that we might perswade

Him to continue in his secrecie?

_Mer_. I did intreate him, but he would not come,

But vow'd to be as secret as my selfe.

_Rach_. What, did he sweare?

_Mer_. What neede you aske me that?

You know we never heard him sweare an othe.

But since he hath conceal'd the thing thus long,

I hope in God he will conceale it still.

_Rach_. Pray God he do, and then I have no doubt

But God will overpasse this greevous sinne,

If you lament with true unfained teares

And seeke to live the remnant of your yeares

In Gods true feare with upright conscience.

_Mer_. If it would please him pardon this amisse

And rid my body from the open shame

That doth attend this deed, being brought to light,

I would endevour all my comming dayes

To please my maker and exalt his praise.

But it growes late, come bring me to my bed,

That I may rest my sorrow-charged head.

_Rach_. Rest still in calme secure tranquillitie,

And over-blowe this storme of mightie feare

With pleasant gales of hoped quietnesse.

Go when you will; I will attend, and pray

To send this wofull night a cheerfull day.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE VI.]

_Enter Falleria and Sostrata weeping_.

_Fall_. Passe ore these rugged furrowes of laments

And come to plainer pathes of cheerefulnesse;

Cease thy continuall showers of thy woe.

And let my pleasing wordes of comfort chase

These[35] duskie cloudes of thy uniust dispaire

Farre from thy hart, and let a pleasing hope

Of young _Pertillos_ happy safe returne

Establish all your ill-devining thoughts;

So shall you make me cheerfull that am sad,--

And feede your hopes with fond illusions.

_Sos_. I could be so; but my divided soule,

Twixt feare and hope of young _Pertillos_ life,

Cannot arrive at the desired port

Of firme beleefe, until mine eyes do see

Him that I sent to know the certainetie.

_Fal_. To know the certaintie! of whom, of what?

Whome, whether, when, or whereabout, I praie,

Have you dispatcht a frustrate messenger?--

By heaven, and earth, my heart misgiveth[36] me,

They will prevent my cunning pollicie. [_To the people_.

Why speake you not? what winged Pegasus

Is posted for your satisfaction?

_Sos_. Me thinkes my speach reveales a hidden feare,

And that feare telles me that the childe is dead.

_Fall_. By sweete _S. Andrew_ and my fathers soule,

I thinke the peevish boy be too too well

But speake, who was your passions harbinger?

_Sos_. One that did kindle my misdoubting thoughts,

With the large flame of his timiddity.

_Fall_. Oh then I know the tinder of your feare.

Was young _Allenso_ your white[37] honnie sonne.

Confusion light upon his timerous head,

For broching this large streame of fearefulnesse!

And all the plagues that damned furies feele

For their forepassed bold iniquities,

Afflict you both for thus preventing me!

_Sos_. Preventing you! of what? _Fallerio_, speake,

For if you doe not my poore hart will breake.

_Fall_. Why of the good that I had purposed,

To young _Pertillo_, which I would conceale

From you and him until the deed were done.

_Sost_. If it were good, then we affect him deare,

And would add furtherance to your enterprise.

_Fall_. I say your close eaves-dropping[38] pollicies

Have hindred him of greater benefits

Then I can ever do him after this.--

If he live long, and growe to riper sinne, [_To the people_.

Heele cursse you both, that thus have hindered

His freedom from this goale of sinfull flesh.--

But let that passe, when went your harebrainde sonne,

That Cuckow, vertue-singing, hatefull byrde,

To guarde the safetie of his better part,

Which he hath pend within the childish coope

Of young _Pertillos_ sweete securitie?

_Sost_. That lovely sonne, that comfort of my life,

The root of vertuous magnamitie,

That doth affect with an unfained love,

That tender boy, which under heavens bright eye,

Deserveth most to be affected deare,

Went some two houres after the little boy

Was sent away to keepe[39] at _Padua_.

_Fall_. What, is a lovelie? he's a loathsome toade,

A one eyde _Cyclops_, a stigmaticke[40] brat,

That durst attempt to contradict my will,

And prie into my close intendements.

_Enter Alenso sad_.

Mas, here a comes: his downcast sullen looke,

Is over-waigh'd with mightie discontent.--

I hope the brat is posted to his sire,

That he is growne so lazie of his pace;

Forgetfull of his dutie, and his tongue

Is even fast tyde with strings of heavinesse.--

Come hether, boye! sawst thou my obstacle,

That little _Dromus_ that crept into my sonne,

With friendly hand remoov'd and thrust away?

Say, I, and please me with the sweetest note

That ever relisht in a mortals mouth.

_Allen_. I am a Swan that singe, before I dye,

Your note of shame and comming miserie.

_Fall_. Speake softly, sonne, let not thy mother heare;

She was almost dead before for very feare.

_Allen_. Would I could roare as instruments of warre,

Wall-battring Cannons, when the Gun powder

Is toucht with part of _Etnas_ Element!

Would I could bellow like enraged Buls,

Whose harts are full of indignation,

To be captiv'd by humaine pollicie!

Would I could thunder like Almightie _Ioue_,

That sends his farre-heard voice to terrifie

The wicked hearts of earthly citizens!

Then roaring, bellowing, thundring, I would say,

Mother, lament, _Pertillos_ made away!

_Sost_. What, is he dead? God give me leave to die,

And him repentance for his treacherie!

[_Falleth down and dyeth_.

_Fall_. Never the like impietie was done:

A mother slaine, with terror of the sonne!

Helpe to repaire the damadge thou hast made,

And seeke to call back life with dilligence.

_Allen_. Call back a happy creature to more woe!

That were a sinne: good Father, let her go.

0 happy I, if my tormenting smart,

Could rend like her's, my griefe-afflicted heart!

Would your hard hart extend unto your wife,

To make her live an everdying life?

What, is she dead? oh, then thrice happy she,

Whose eyes are bard from our callamitie!

_Fall_. I, all too soone, thou viper, paracide!

But for thy tongue thy mother had not dyde:

That belching voice, that harsh night-raven sound,

Untimely sent thy mother to the ground:

Upbraid my fault, I did deceive my brother;

Cut out thy tongue, that slue thy carefull mother.

_Allen_. God love my soule, as I in heart rejoyce

To have such power in my death-bringing voice,

See how in steade of teares and hartie sighes;

Of foulded armes and sorrow-speaking lookes,

I doe behold with cheerefull countenance

The livelesse roote of my nativitie,

And thanke her hasty soule that thence did goe

To keep her from her sonne and husbandes woe.--

Now, father, give attention to my tale;

I will not dip my griefe-deciphering tongue

In bitter wordes of reprehension.

Your deeds have throwne more mischiefes on your head

Then wit or reason can remove againe;

For to be briefe, _Pertillo_, (oh that name

Cannot be nam'de without a hearty sigh!)

Is murthered, and--

_Fal_. What and? this newes is good.

_Allen_. The men which you suborn'd to murther him--

_Fal_. Better and better, then it cannot out,

Unlesse your love will be so scripulous [_sic_]

That it will overthrowe your selfe and me.

_Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me.

The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood,

Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen--

_Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?

_Allen_. Was made acquainted by the one of them,

(That had some little remnant of his life)

With all your practice and conspiracie.

_Fall_. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell,

To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases,

Rather then bring my life in ieopardie!

Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne,

And make a iest at my calamitie?

_Allen_. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe,

If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.

_Fal_. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke;

That peece of life hath so confounded mee

That I am wholly overcome with feare.

_Allen_. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life,

With all the strict severitie he can;

But I will crosse his resolution

And keepe you from his furie well enough.

Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man

That did suborne the bloodie murtherers;

I will not stir from out this house of woe,

But waight the comming of the officers,

And answere for you fore the angrie Duke,

And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.

_Fall_. Ile none of that; I do not like the last;

I love thee dearer then I doe my life,

And all I did, was to advance thy state

To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.

_Allen_. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare

Before the Duke, I being not the man,

He can inflict no punishment on mee.

_Fall_. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee;

Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie.

But for my beard thou canst not counterfet

And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne;

White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

_Allen_. I bought a beard this day at _Padua_,

Such as our common actors use to weare

When youth would put on ages countenance;

So like in shape, in colour, and in all,

To that which growes upon your aged face,

That were I dressed in your abilimentes,

Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

_Fall_. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd,

To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

_Allen_. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire,

And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede;

Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge

Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke,

And so passe currant from suspition.

_Fall_. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie,

Nature in thee hath firme predominance,

That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch,

Can shake thee with their strongest violence:

In this disguise, ile see the end of thee,

That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

_Allen_. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:--

This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [_(To the) People_.

_Fall_. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife,

Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [_Exit_.

_Allen_. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe,

Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse

Of hart-surcharging deplorations.

She shall have due and Christian funerall,

And rest in peace amongst her auncestors.

As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd,

In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes,

Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers,

That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes

Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers.

And yet these many winged sepulchers,

Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall,

At last attaine to earth by funerall.

Well I will prosecute my pollicy,

That wished death may end my miseries.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE VII.]

_Enter Cowley and Williams_.

_Cow_. Still in your dumpes, good _Harry_? yet at last,

Utter your motive of this heavinesse.

Why go you not unto your maisters house?

What, are you parted? if that be the cause,

I will provide you of a better place.

_Wil_. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke;

That is the cause,--because I cannot stay

With him whose love is dearer then my life.

_Cow_. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

_Wil_. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

_Cow_. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?

_Wil_. No, no, your understanding is but dimme,

That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare.

We both were fearefull, and we both did part,

Because indeed we both were timerous.

_Cow_. What accident begot your mutuall feare?

_Wil_. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

_Cow_. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

_Wil_. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine;

I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

_Cow_. It seemes to be a thing of consequence,

And therefore prithie, _Harry_, for my love,

Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

_Wil_. Were I assur'd my hart should have release

Of secret torment and distemperature,

I would reveale it to you specially

Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

_Cow_. Good _Harrie Williams_, make no doubt of that;

Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,

Beyond your present expectation.

Then tell it, _Harry_, what soere it be,

And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

_Wil_. Then have you heard of _Beech_ of _Lambert Hill_,

And of his boy which late were murthered?

_Cow_. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

_Will_. But have you heard of them that murthered them?

_Cow_. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame,

And make them pay due penance for their sinne.

_Wil_. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare

To utter what I thought to have reveald.

_Cow_. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed,

And wilt conceale it now the deed is done?

Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost!

Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe

And thou mongst them must suffer punishment,

Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.

_Wil_. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?

_Cow_. Better then hazard both thy life and soule

To boulster out such barbarous villanie.

Why, then belike your maister did the deed?

_Wil_. My maister unawares escapt my mouth;

But what the Lord doth please shall come to light,

Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie:

His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end

Of _Robert Beech_ and _Thomas Winchester_.

_Cow_. Could he alone do both those men to death?

Hadst thou no share in execution?

_Wil_. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.

_Cow_. If this be true, thou maist escape with life:

Confesse the truth unto the officers,

And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.

_Wil_. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love

That made me hide his great transgressions:

But I will be directed as you please.

So save me God, as I am innocent!

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE VIII.]

_Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;

Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments_.

_Fal_. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me,

And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee,

Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise.

I like a shepheard now must learn to know,

When to lead foorth my little bleating flock,

To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes;

In stormie time to drive them to the lee;

To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice

Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams;

To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes,

In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals;

And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away,

That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

_Allen_. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away

From sillie creatures wanting intellecte,

And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts,

To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne!

As pure and innocent as any Lambe

_Pertillo_ was, which you have fed upon.

But things past helpe may better be bewaild

With carefull teares, then finde a remedie;

Therefore, for feare our practise be espide,

Let us to question of our husbandrie.

How many Lambes fell from the middle flock,

Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

_Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto_.

_Fall_. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead.

But three and twenty scud about the fields,

That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

_Vesu_. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes,

That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

_Allen_. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?

The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,

Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,

Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,

The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

_Fall_. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time,

Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

_Vesu_. Forbeare a while this idle businesse,

And talke of matters of more consequence.

_Fall_. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,

To call a shepheards care an idle toye.

What though we have a little merry sport

With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,

And jolly friskins on a holly-day,

Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke

Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

_Vesu_. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!--

And now, _Fallerio_, in the Princes name,

I do arrest you, for the cruell murther

Of young _Pertillo_, left unto your charge,

Which you discharged with a bloody writ,

Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.

Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,

To ratifie your _Stigian_ cruelty,

That cannot be deluded any way.

_Allen_. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say!

As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well:

I sent him yesterday to _Padua_.

_Alber_. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes,

As will not winck at your iniquitie.

_Allen_. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent!

Say what you will, I know my conscience.

_Fal_.--To be afflicted with a scourge of care,

Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

_Turq_. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more;

That heart that could invent such treachery,

Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

_Alen_. I do defie your accusations;

Let me have justice, I will answere it.

_Vesuv_. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde,

To take possession of his goods and landes

For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.

_Allen_. I hope youle answere anything you doe.

My Lord _Vesuvio_, you shall answere it,

And all the rest that use extremities.

_Alber_. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

[_Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria_.

_Fal_. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled.

Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe

Am close enough from their discoverie;

But not so close but that my verie soule,

Is ract with tormentes for _Pertillos_ death.

I am _Acteon_; I doe beare about,

My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.

My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me

With hope of great succeeding benefits,

Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart

With feare of death and tortring punishment.

These are the stings whenas our consciences

Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.

Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,

And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce

Then rugged care would willingly permit.

Ile to the Court to see _Allenso_ free,

That he may then relieve my povertie.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE IX.]

_Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes_.

_Con_. Who would have thought of all the men alive

That _Thomas Merry_ would have done this deede

So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 _wat_. Of all the men that live in _London_ walles,

I would have thought that _Merry_ had bin free.

2 _wat_. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans?

I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.

3 _wat_. He would not loase a sermon for a pound,

An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine,

An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on;

And yet two murthers were not scripulous.

Such close illusions God will bring to light,

And overthrowe the workers with his might.

_Con_. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore;

I see a light, they are not all in bed:

[_Knockes; Rachell comes downe_.

How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

_Rach_. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?

_Con_. You doe but iest; I know he is within,

And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

_Rach_. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe,

And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

_Con_. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake;

But for your brother, he is knowne to be

A damned villaine and an hipocrite.

_Rachell_, I charge thee in her highnesse name,

To go with us to prison presently.

_Rach_. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

_Con_. You know that best, but every one doe know

You and your brother murthered Maister _Beech_,

And his poore boy that dwelt at _Lambert hill_.

_Rach_. I murthered? my brother knowes that I,

Did not consent to either of their deathes.

_Con_. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

_Rach_. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.

_Con_. Now, Maister _Merry_, are you in a sweate?

[_Throwes his night cap away_.

_Merry sigh_. No verily, I am not in a sweate.

_Con_. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

_Mer_. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.

_Con_. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise,

And presently to goe along with us.

[_Riseth up_.

_Mer_. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

_Con_. We partly doe; when saw you maister _Beech_?

_Mer_. I doe not well remember who you meane.

_Con_. Not _Beech_, the Chaundler upon _Lambert hill_?

_Mer_. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

_Con_. I would you had not, for your sisters sake,

For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy.

Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;

Confession drawes repentance after it.

_Mer_. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,

I was the man that did them both to death:

As for my sister and my harmlesse man,

I doe protest they both are innocent.

_Con_. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest

The manner how, and where, the deede was done;

Therefore twere vaine to colour anything.

Bring them away.

_Rach_. Ah brother, woe is me!

_Mer_. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter Trueth_.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;

Now, _Merry_, change thy name and countenance;

Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne

Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities.

Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,

Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,

For thou couldst never number them before.--

Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,

And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale.

_Merry_, by lawe convict as principall,

Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead,

And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines.

_Williams_ and _Rachell_ likewise are convict

For their concealment; _Williams_ craves his booke[42]

And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie;

But wretched _Rachels_ sexe denies that grace,

And therefore dooth receive a doome of death

To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale.

Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes,

Which many heere did see perform'd indeed.

As for _Fallerio_, not his homelie weedes,

His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech,

Can shield him from deserved punishment;

But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect,

Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse,

Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes,

Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie.

Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die;

Next _Merries_ death shall end this Tragedie.

[_Exit_.

[ACT THE FIFTH.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised_.

_Duke_. Where is that _Syren_, that incarnate fiend,

Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame,

Blot and confusion of his familie,

False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust,

I meane _Fallerio_, bloody murtherer:

Hath he confest his cursed treacherie,

Or will he stand to proove his innocence?

_Vesu_. We have attach'de _Fallerio_, gracious lord,

And did accuse him with _Pertillos_ death;

But he remote will not confesse himselfe

Neither the meanes nor author of the same.

His mightie vowes and protestations

Do almost seeme to pleade integritie,

But that we all do know the contrarie.

_Fall_.--I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde;

His seeming me, doth so delude your minde. [_(To the) People_.

_Duke_. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe,

Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:

[_Alberto and other fetch Alenso_.

His sonne can witnesse that the dying man

Accusde _Fallerio_ for his treacherie.--

Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite,

And speake directlie to these articles:

First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherers

To massacre _Pertillo_ in a wood?

_Alen_. I never did suborne such murtherers,

But ever lov'd _Pertillo_ as my life.

_Duke_. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.

_Alen_. I have no sonne to testifie so much.

_Fal_.--No, for his gravitie is counterfeit,

Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.

_Vesu_. Have you no sonne? doth not _Alenso_ live?

_Alen_. _Alenso_ lives, but is no sonne of mine.

_Alber_. Indeed his better part had not his source

From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart,

For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.

_Duke_. I dare be sworne that _Sostrata_ would blush,

Shouldst thou deny _Alenso_ for thy sonne.

_Alen_. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me

To be the father of that haplesse sonne.

_Turq_. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe

To be your selfe, unjust _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe,

But will not answere to _Fallerio_.

_Duke_. Not to _Fallerio_? this is excellent!

You are the man was cal'd _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so,

Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.

_Duke_. This impudence shall not excuse your fault;

You are well knowne to be _Fallerio_,

The wicked husband of dead _Sostrata_

And father to the vertuous _Alenso_;

And even as sure as all these certeinties,

Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.

_Alen_. True, for I am nor false _Fallerio_,

Husband, nor father, as you do suggest,

And therefore did not hire the murtherers;

Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes.

[_Puls off his disguise_.

_Duke_. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle,

To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie

And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!

_Alb_. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle,

Is not of power to free himselfe from death,

Through the performance of this suddaine change.

_Duke_. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome,

He should not live for this presumption:

Use no excuse, _Alenso_, for thy life;

My doome of death shall be irrevocable.

_Alen_. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate

The rigor of your life-confounding doome!

I am prepar'd with all my hart to die,

For thats th' end of humaine miserie.

_Duke_. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately,

For your illusion of the Magistrates

With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.

_Alen_. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace

With a more fervent and unfained zeale

Then an ambicious rule-desiring man

Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem,

Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent

Then pompe or honor can remunerate.

When I am dead, let it be said of me,

_Alenso_ died to set his father free.

_Fal_. That were a freedome worse than servitude

To cruell Turke or damned Infidell.

Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice,

Justice on him that hath deserved death,

Not on _Alenso_; he is innocent.

_Alen_. But I am guiltie of abetting him,

Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict,

And therefore death is meritorious.

_Fall_. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves,

To murther poore _Pertillo_ in the wood.

Spare, spare _Alenso_! he is innocent.

_Duke_. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not:

None but _Fallerio_ is accusde hereof.

_Alen_. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time,

Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.

_Fal_. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake,

And suffer death for true affection!

Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne,

Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of,

Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this.

I am thy father, though unworthy so:

Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes.

I am _Fallerio_, make no doubt of me, [_Put off_.

Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance,

Only to scape the terror of the lawe.

_Alen_. And I _Alenso_ that did succour him

Gainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne.

Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live,

I should not live, if I did rescue him.

I did, God lives, and will revenge it home,

If you defer my condigne punishment.

_Duke_. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death:

But for _Fallerio_, he shall hang in chaines

After he's dead, for he was principall.

_Fall_. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall,

Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste,

Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice,

Brings to the eares of poore _Fallerio_,

Not for myselfe but for _Allensoes_ sake,

Whome I have murthered by my trechery.

Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke

Of melting pittie doth remaine alive,

And not extinguisht by my impious deedes,

Oh kindle it unto a happie flame,

To light _Allenso_ from this miserie

Which through dim death he's like to fall into.

_Allen_. That were to overthrow my soule and all.

Should you reverse this sentence of my death,

My selfe would play the death-man on my selfe

And overtake your swift and winged soule,

Ere churlish _Caron_ had transported you

Unto the fields of sad _Proserpina_.

_Duke_. Cease, cease, _Fallerio_, in thy bootlesse prayers.

I am resolv'd, I am inexorable.

_Vesuvio_, see their judgement be performde,

And use _Alenso_ with all clemencie,

Provided that the lawe be satisfied.

[_Exit Duke and Alberto_.

_Vesu_. It shall be done with all respectivenesse;

Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.

_Fall_. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie,

To show him favour but cut off his head.

_Alen_. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe;

I can, and will, indure the stroake of death,

Were his appearance nere so horrible,

To meete _Pertillo_ in another world.

_Fal_. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures course

Had been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age,

Mightst die the death of thy progenitors;

Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly,

But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.

_Alen_. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?

_Fal_. I, with reporting of my villanie.

The very audit of my wickednesse,

Had force enough to give a sodaine death.

Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde,

Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie,

If you deale ill with this distressed childe,

God will no doubt revenge the innocent.

I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.

_Allen_. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes,

And thinke on that which more concerneth us.

_Fal_. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur

Which prict me on to any godlinesse;

And now thou doest indevor to incite

Me make my parting peace with God and men.

I doe confesse, even from my verie soule,

My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse

Against my maker manie thousand waies:

_Ab imo cordis_ I repent my selfe

Of all my sinnes against his maiestie;

And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge

The death of poore _Pertillo_ and those men

Which I suborn'd to be his murtherers,

When I appeare before thy heavenlie throne

To have my sentence or of life or death.

_Vesu_. Amen, amen, and God continue still

These mercie-moving meditations.

_Allen_. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent,

Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soules

Even from the verie gates of gaping hell,

Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faults

In the sweete river of that precious blood

Which thy deare sonne did shed in _Galgotha_,

For the remission of all contrite soules.

_Fal_. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne.

_Allen_. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes

Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse.

_Fal_. Thou never yet wert disobedient,

Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse.

Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee;

Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me.

_Allen_. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death.

Even when you will, come, bring us to the place,

Where we may consumate our wretchednesse,

And change it for eternall hapinesse.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers

with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c_.

_Mer_. Now, sister _Rachell_, is the houre come

Wherein we both must satisfie the law

For _Beeches_ death and harmelesse _Winchester_.

Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe:

I doe confesse fore all this company

That thou wert never privie to their deathes,

But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done,

To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne;

And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame,

I doe intreate thee on my bended knee

To pardon me for thus offending thee.

_Rach_. I doe forgive you from my verie soule,

And thinke not that I shed these store of teares,

For that I price my life, or feare to dye,

Though I confesse the manner of my death

Is much more grievous then my death it selfe;

But I lament for that it hath beene said

I was the author of this crueltie

And did produce you to this wicked deede,

Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.

_Mer_. Indeede thou art; thy conscience is at peace,

[_Goe up the lather_.

And feeles no terror for such wickednesse;

Mine hath beene vexed but is now at rest,

For that I am assur'd my hainous sinne

Shall never rise in judgement gainst my soule,

But that the blood of _Jesus Christ_ hath power

To make my purple sinne as white as Snowe.

One thing, good people, witnesse here with me,

That I doe dye in perfect charitie,

And do forgive, as I would be forgiven

First of my God and then of all the world.

Cease publishing that I have beene a man

Train'd up in murther or in crueltie,

For fore this time, this time is all too soone,

I never slue or did consent to kill;

So helpe me God as this I speake is true!

I could say something of my innocence,

In fornication and adulterie,

But I confesse the iustest man alive,

That beares about the frailtie of a man,

Cannot excuse himselfe from daily sinne

In thought, in word, and deed. Such was my life.

I never hated _Beech_ in all my life,

Onely desire of money which he had,

And the inciting of that foe of man,

That greedie gulfe, that great _Leviathan_,

Did halle [_sic_] me on to these callamities;

For which, even now my very soule dooth bleede.

God strengthen me with patience to endure

This chastisement, which I confesse too small

A punishment for this my hainous sinne.

Oh be couragious, sister! fight it well!

We shall be crown'd with immortallitie.

_Rach_. I will not faint, but combat manfully;

Christ is of power to helpe and strengthen me.

_Officer_. I pray make hast; the hower is almost past.

_Mer_. I am prepar'd; oh God, receive my soule;

Forgive my sinnes, for they are numberlesse.

Receive me, God, for now I come to thee!

[_Turne of the Lather. Rachel shrinketh_.

_Offi_. Nay shrinke not, woman; have a cheerefull hart.

_Rach_. I, so I do, and yet this sinfull flesh

Will be rebellious gainst my willing spirit.

Come, let me clime these steps that lead to heaven,

Although they seeme the staires of infamie:

Let me be merror to ensuing times,

And teach all sisters how they do conceale,

The wicked deeds of brethren, or of friends.

I not repent me of my love to him,

But that thereby I have provoked God

To heavie wrath and indignation;

Which turne away, great God, for Christes sake.

Ah, _Harry Williams_, thou wert chiefest cause,

That I doe drinke of this most bitter cup,

For hadst thou opened _Beeches_ death at first,

The boy had liv'd and thou hadst sav'd my life.

But thou art branded with a marke of shame,

And I forgive thee from my very soule.

Let him and me learn all that heare of this

To utter brothers or their maisters misse;

Conceale no murthers, lest it do beget

More bloody deeds of like deformitie.

Thus God forgive my sinnes, receive my soule!

And though my dinner be of bitter death,

I hope my soule shall sup with Jesus Christ,

And see his presence everlastingly. [_Dyeth_.

_Offi_. The Lord of heaven have mercy on her soule,

And teach all others by this spectacle,

To shunne such dangers as she ran into,

By her misguided taciturnitie:

Cut downe their bodies, give hers funerall,

But let his body be conveyed hence,

To _Mile-end_ greene, and there be hang'd in chaines.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

_Enter Truthe_.

_Tru_. See here the end of lucre and desire

Of riches, gotten by unlawfull meanes.

What monstrous evils this hath brought to passe,

Your scarce-drie eyes give testimoniall;

The father sonne, the sister brother brings,

To open scandall and contemptuous death.

_Enter Homicide and Covetousnesse_.

But heere come they that wrought these deeds of ruthe,

As if they meant to plot new wickednesse.

Whether so fast, you damned miscreants,

Yee vaine deluders of the credulous,

That seeke to traine men to destruction?

_Mur_. Why, we will on, to set more harmes a flote,

That I may swim in rivers of warme blood,

Out-flowing from the sides of Innocents.

_Cove_. I will entice the greedie-minded soule,

To pull the fruite from the forbidden tree;

Yet _Tantall_-like, he shall but glut his eye,

Nor feede his body with salubrious fruite.

_Tru_. Hence Stigmaticks, you shall not harbor heare,

To practice execrable butcheries!

My selfe will bring your close designes to light,

And overthrow your vilde conspiracies.

No hart shall intertaine a murthrous thought

Within the sea-imbracing continent,

Where faire _Eliza_, Prince of pietie,

Doth weare the peace-adorned Diadem.

_Cove_. Mauger the worst, I will have many harts

That shall affect my secret whisperings;

And chinck of golde is such a pleasing crie,

That all men wish to heare such harmony,

And I will place stern _Murther_ by my side,

That we may do more harmes then haughty pride.

_Homi_. Truth, now farewell; hereafter thou shalt see

Ile vexe thee more with many tragedies.

_Truth_. The more the pitty; would the hart of man

Were not so open wide to entertaine

The harmfull baites of selfe-devouring sinne!

But from the first unto the latter times,

It hath and will be so eternally.----

Now it remaines to have your good advice

Unto a motion of some consequence.

There is a Barke thats newly rigd for sea,

Unmand, unfurnishd with munition:

She must incounter with a greater foe

Then great _Alcydes_ slue in _Lerna_ Lake

Would you be pleasd to man this willing barke

With good conceits of her intencion;

To store her with the thundring furniture

Of smoothest smiles, and pleasing plaudiats;

She shall be able to endure the shock

Of snarling _Zoylus_, and his cursed crue,

That seekes to sincke her in reproches waves;

And may perchance obteine a victorie

Gainst curious carpes, and fawning parasites:

But if you suffer her, for want of ayde,

To be orewhelmed by her insulting foes,

Oh then she sinckes, that meant to passe the flood

With stronger force to do her countrie good.

It resteth thus; whether she live or dye,

She is your Beades-man everlastinglie.

Finis--Rob. Yarington.

_Laus Deo_

INTRODUCTION TO THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

In Sir Henry Herbert's MS. Office-Book, under date Sept. 3rd, 1624, is

the entry:--"for the Cock-pit Company[44] a new play called the Captive

[_sic_] or the Lost Recovered, written by Hayward," i.e., Heywood. The

lost recovered! Lost for two centuries and a half was this comedy of

dear Tom Heywood, until I recovered it from Egerton MS. 1994. I am proud

to have rendered this service to a gentle poet who has given me many

hours of delight.

The play is without title or author's name in the MS. After reading the

first page I judged that the author was Heywood, and this impression was

soon confirmed beyond all doubt. In the MS. the present play is

immediately followed by a piece called _Calisto_, which consists of

scenes from Heywood's _Golden Age_ and _Silver Age_. I have elsewhere

mentioned (Vol. ii. p. 419) that _Calisto_ and _The Captives_ are

written in the same desperately difficult handwriting,--peculiar to

these two plays, and not found in any other part of the volume. There

can be no doubt that whoever transcribed _Calisto_ transcribed also _The

Captives_. But from internal evidence alone--putting aside the testimony

afforded by the handwriting, and ignoring the entry in Sir Henry

Herbert's Office-Book--any competent reader could plainly perceive that

the play is Heywood's. In the very first scene--in the conversation

between Treadway and Raphael--we feel at once the charm of that hearty

"Christianism" which is never absent from Heywood's work. There is no

affectation in Heywood; he is always natural and simple, though

occasionally the writing sprawls.

Everybody knows the droll description in Heywood's _English Traveller_

of the "Shipwreck by Drink,"[45]--how some unthrift youths, carousing

deeply, chanced to turn their talk on ships and storms at sea; whereupon

one giddy member of the company suddenly conceived that the room was a

pinnace, that the sounds of revelry were the bawlings of sailors, and

that his unsteady footing was due to the wildness of the tempest; the

illusion spread among his companions, and a scene of whimsical confusion

followed. In _The Captives_, ii. 2, we have a similar conceit

suggested:--

_Scrib_. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill,

Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreames

Hathe brought us to the happy patronage

Of this most reverent abbott.

_Clowne_. What dangers? what extreames?

_Scrib_. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night

Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.

_Clowne_. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land! I perceive

you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for

the sea, and by cause some one of the wheels broake and you cast

into some water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you

had bene in danger of drowneinge.

The main story of _The Captives_ is borrowed from Plautus's _Rudens_,

many passages being translated almost word for word. It will be

remembered that in the _English Traveller_ Heywood was indebted to

another of Plautus's plays--the _Mostellaria_. I have not been able to

discover the source of the very curious underplot of _The Captives_.

The MS. from which the play is printed bears every appearance of being a

play-house copy. Numerous passages have been cancelled, seemingly (for

the most part) by the hand of some reviser. In most instances I have

restored the cancelled passages to the text--though the task of

deciphering them has been cruelly difficult.

THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

A Comedy by THOMAS HEYWOOD.

Licensed by Sir Henry Herbert in 1624,

and now first printed from Egerton MS. 1994.

_Actus primus_.

SCENA PR.

_Enter Mr. Raphael a younge marchaunt, Mr. Treadway

his companione and frend_.

_Raphael_. You talke to one thats deaf; I am resolv'd.

_Treadway_. I knwe [_sic_] you are not of that stupid sence

But you will lyst to reason.

_Raphael_. Alls but vayne.

_Treadway_. You saye shees fayre.

_Raphael_. And there-fore to bee lov'd.

_Treadway_.[46] No consequent

To trust to collour. Are not the bewtyous lyllyes,

The gardens pryde and glorye of the feilds,

Thoughe to the eye fayre and delectable,

Yet ranke in smell? the stayneles swanne

With all the Oceans water cannot wash

The blacknes from her feete, tis borne with her.

Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates,

And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales;

And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst,

Dothe oft proove his destroyer.

_Raphael_. Saye perhapps

Some frend of yours miscarried in his choyse,

Will you condeme all women for that one?

Bycause we reade one _Lais_ was unchast,

Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans?

Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt,

Condeme the necessary use of fyre?

One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate?

That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds;

Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea,

Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse,

Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepes

Of theire fayre Sayles and tackles?

_Treadway_. Not so, frend.[47]

Althoughe her person may perhapps content,

Consider but the place.

_Raphael_. I knwe it badd,

Nay woorst of Ills.

_Treadway_. A howse of prostitution

And common brothellrie.

_Raphael_. Which coold not stand

But that her vertue guards it and protects it

From blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyves

Lyke to a ritche and pretious Jewell lost,

Fownd shyninge on a doonge-hill, yet the gemme

No wyse disparadged of his former worthe

Nor bated of his glory; out of this fyre

Of lust and black temptation sheis [_sic_] returned

Lyke gold repur'd and tryde.

_Treadway_. Of what byrthe is shee?

_Raphael_. Unknwne to mee or any: shee protests,

Neye to her self; what neede I question that?

Sure sutche sweete features, goodnes, modesty

Such gentlenes, such vertue cannot bee

Deryvd from base and obscure parentadge.

_Treadway_. Whats then your end and purpose?

_Raphael_. To redeeme her

Out of this gayle of sinne and leprosye,

This mart of all diseases, where shee lyves

Still under the comande and Tyrany

Of a most base hee-bawde: about which busines

Wee have allready traffict.

_Treadway_. Well, if so,

And to dispose her elsewhere to her goodd,

Provided still that vertue be your ayme,

I cannot but commende your charity

And to my power I'l seeke to further it.

_Raphael_. You so intyre mee to you. Within theire!

_Enter the Clowne_.

_Clowne_. Within theire is nowe without heare: your worshipps pleasure?

_Raphael_. Hye to the next key and inquire for one cald Seignior

_Mildewe_ and resolve him from mee that I have kept apointment: the

somms redy and present to bee tendred.

_Clowne_. Who? the _Frenshe_ monster,[48] _Neapolitan_ Seignor, the

man-makarel[49] and marchant of madens-fleshe that deales altogether

in flawed ware and crackt comodityes? the bawdy broker, I meanes,

where a man for his dollers may have choyse of diseases, and som tymes

the pox too, if hee will leeve beehind him a good pawne for it.

_Raphael_. How thou drummst.

_Clowne_. Marry qothe hee. So I may happen to bringe it awaye in my

nose. Well I smell some bawdy business or other in hand. They call this

place _Marcellis_ Roade, the cheiff haven towne in _France_, but hee

keepes a road[50] in his oune howse wherein have ridd and bin ridd more

leakinge vessayles, more panderly pinks,[51] pimps and punkes, more

rotten bottoms ballanst, more fly-boates[52] laden and unladen every

morninge and evenning tyde then weare able to fill the huge greate baye

of _Portingall_. Is this all, syr?

_Raphael_. Yes all, and heares the somme.

_Clowne_. A small somme of that is worthe all the busines that I am

sent about, for the all in all on't is I am afrayde that all will

proove woorthe nothinge.

_Treadway_. And yet mee thinkes ere folly you conclude

You should a little stagger.

_Raphael_. Should? wherein?

_Treadway_. For many reasons: Il alleadge som fewe.

Who knwes but this your fayre and seeminge saynt,

Thoughe disposd well and in her owne condition

Of promisinge goodnes, yet livinge in the seminary

Of all libidinous actions, spectars, sights,

Even in the open market where sinne's sould

Where lust and all uncleanes are commerst

As freely as comodityes are vended

Amongst the noblest marchants,--who I saye

So confident that dare presume a virgin

Of such a soft and maiden temperature,

Deyly and howerly still sollicited

By gallants of all nations, all degrees,

Allmost all ages, even from upright youth

To the stoopinge and decrepitt--

_Raphael_. Heare mee nowe.

_Treadway_. Two woords and I have doone: the place considered,

The basenes of the person under whome

Shee lyves opprest, a slave of sordid lyfe,

Conditiond with the devill, temptinge still

Sometymes by fayre means, then againe by foul,

To prostitute her for his servyle gaynes;

And next the dissolute crewe with which shees hows'd

Ech night, ech deye perswedinge boathe with toonge

And lewde example; all these circonstances

Duly considered, I shoold dowbt at least,

If not presume, the woorst.

_Raphael_. Oh you have pleasd mee,

And in proposinge all these difficultyes

Given of her graces ample testimony.

Shee is that miracle, that only one

That cann doo these; wear't comon in the sexe

Twold not appeare to mee so admirable;

It is for these I love her.

_Treadway_. You are resolvd

And I'l not staye your purpose.

_Enter the Clowne with Mildewe and Sarleboys his

guest and frende_.

_Clowne_. I have brought this flesh-fly whome as soone as the butchers

wyves sawe comminge throwghe the shambles, they all of them stood with

theire flapps in theire hands like fanns. I, demandinge the reason itt

was answerd me againe itt was to keepe away his infectious breath least

it should fill theire meate with fly-blowes.

_Raphael_. Well, mett, good Mr. _Mildewe_.

_Mildewe_. My returne

Of your salutes I cast belowe your feete.

_Raphael_. Syr, I am yours to treade on. You will then

Stand to your former bargen?

_Mildewe_. I weare else

Not woorthy to bee stil'd what I am tearmd,

A trewe venereall broaker.

_Clowne_. That's in _Italian_

A damnable hee bawde.

_Mildewe_ Y'have such a bargen

Marcellis, nor all France, shall yeild the like.

Tis such a deynty peece of purity

Such a coy thinge that[53] hee unto whose lott

She shall hereafter fall may boast himself

To bee a happy husband. For our trade

Shees out at that: neather promises, rewards,

Example or Intreaty, fayre, fowle meanes,

Gaine present or the hope of future goodd,

Can force from her a presens; then much lesse

A frendly prostitution.

_Raphael_. Hearst thou this?

_Treadway_. Yes[54] and comende it in her, if that toonge,

Even from his fyrst of speakinge traind to lye,

Can now at lengthe speake truth.

_Clowne_. Ay theres the dowbt.

_Sarly_. This too yeares I have quested to his howse,

And knwe all this most certeine.

_Raphael_. Witnes too.

_Mildewe_. I doo protest she spoyles my family

And rather growne a hyndrance to my trade

Then benefitt; so that, if not to losse,

I wishe that I were clerly ridd of her,

For shee hathe gott a trick to[55] my whores;

And such as of themselves are impudent,

When shee but coms in presens she makes blushe,

As if ashamd of what they late had doon

Or are about to doo.

_Clowne_. Well sayde, ould sinner.

_Raphael_. See, heeres the sum, 3 hundred crownes.

_Mildewe_. O'th somme.

_Raphael_. All currant and full weight.

_Mildewe_. I'l fetch my doughter

That hath no lightnes in her, currant too

As any lasse i'th cittye.

_Raphael_. _Mildewe_, staye.

_Clowne_. Staye, oh thou father of fornication and marchant of nothinge

but mesteryes and mischeife; whele about, thou dung[c]art of diseases;

sayle this way thoue galley foyst[56] of galls and garbadge! Dost not

heare my master? staye!

_Mildewe_. Why, did his worshippe call?

_Clowne_. Didst thou not heare him call, and mee cry out upon thee?

_Mildewe_. His pleasure then?

_Raphael_. I have bethought mee better nowe to keepe

This business secrett, least it chance to arryve

To th'eares of some of my most noble frends;

And not to make it publicke and this honest

Purpose of myne by that meanes misreated,[57]

Heare lett her stay till night bycause I am loath

In th'eye of day to move her through the streetes.

_Mildewe_. Good, syr.

_Raphael_. Nwe [Now] in the villaige by, that fronts the sea,

Som halff league off where stands the monastery,

I have bespoake a place to sojorn her.

There I this evening do intend[58] a feast

Where only wee and som fewe private frends

Have purpost to bee jhoviall. To that place

I prithee, with what pryvacy thou canst,

Conduct her and so add unto our guests.

_Mildewe_. The place I knwe, the tyme is perfect with mee,

And for the feast you saye you have prepared

I shall provyde a stomacke.

_Raphael_. Her caskett, and such other necessaryes

Included in our bargen, bring alonge

Or lett her mayde do'ot for thee.

_Mildewe_. I'l not bate her

A ruff or ragge; no pinne that's usefull too her

Will I keepe backe.

_Raphael_. To this you are witnes, frend.

_Treadway_. I am, Syr.

_Mildewe_. So's my guest.

_Clowne_. And lookes as if with me

Hee only could write witlesse.

_Raphael_. Supper tyme

You will remember, _Mildewe_.

_Mildewe_. Possible

I should forgett to eate of others' cost?

It never was my custom.

_Clowne_. Choake you for't.

_Raphael_. Come, frend, mee thinks I have doone a deede this day

Crownes all my better actions, for I have raised

An Innocent from the hands of an Infidell agent.

_Clowne_. Farewell, rott, farewell murreine, adiewe.

_Mildewe_. Farewell till soone.

[_Exeunt Raphael, Treadway, and Clowne_.

_Sarleb_. And do you meane to keepe your promisse then,

And doo as you have sayde?

_Mildewe_. Why not, I prithee?

What else canst thou advyse mee?

_Sarleb_. Are not wee

Boathe of a rotten conscience, men debosht,

Secluded from the company of such

As either are or else would stryve to bee

Reputed honest? wherefore then should wee

Keepe tutche with any that professe themselves

Not to bee of our ranke?

_Mildewe_. Proceede, good frend:

Thou hast putt project in my brayne allredy,

Small tyme woold better fashion.

_Sarleb_. What if I

Laye such a plotte that you shall gayne these crownes

These full three hundred to your proper use,

And of these peevishe harletryes at home

Make a much greater market?

_Mildewe_. Marry, syr,

That were a tale worth listeninge.

_Sarleb_. These crowns

Are all your owne in your possession,

So are the maydes. I knowe you ritche besydes

In coyne and jewells; heere you lyve despysed,

And whats this clime to us of more esteme

Then any forreine region? whores and bawdes

May lyve in every corner of the woorld,

We knowe tis full of sinners. This, this day

Letts hyre a bark; wee dwell upon the haven,

And instantly 'tis done. Shipp all your goods

With these shee-chatteyles; putt this night to sea--

England they saye is full of whormasters;

There will bee vent for such comoditye,

There strompett them where they (you saye) weare born,

Else you in _Spayne_ may sell them to the stewes,

_Venyce_ or any place of _Italy_;

They are everywhere good chaffer. If not these,

What saye you to _Morocho, Fesse, Algiers_?

Faith these are wares in all parts vendible,

No matter thoughe to _Turke_ and infidell,

So itt bringe gayne and profitt.

_Mildewe_. Lett me hugg thee

For this, deare frend; heareafter I will style thee

My better genius; thou hast monied mee in this,

Nay landed me, made me thy braynes executor,

And putt mee in a lardge possession.

Go hyre a barke.

_Sarlab_. I shall.

_Mildewe_. And instantly.

_Sarlab_. I shall.

_Mildewe_. Ere night wee'l putt into a sea

No larger then our full stretcht consciences.

Lett mee once more Imbrace thee.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENA 2.

_Enter an Abbot with his covent[59] of Fryars, amongst

them Fryar Jhon, and Fryar Ritchard_.

_Abbot_. As I have heare priority of place,

Boathe by our patrons favour and your voyce,

So give me leave to arbitrate amongst you.

_Fr. Jhon_. Without respect of person wee acknowledge you.

Our prince and cheiff.

_Fr. Rich_. And to your fatherly

And grave advyse humbly submitt our selves.

_Abbot_. Knwe then in this small covent, which consysts

Only of 12 in nomber, fryars I meane

And us the Abbat, I have fownde amongst you

Many and grosse abuses; yet for the present

I will insist on fewe. Quarrells, debates,

Whisperinge, supplantinges, private calumnyes,

These ought not bee in such a brotherhood.

Of these Fryar _Jhon_ and thou Fryar _Richard_ are

Accused to bee most guilty, ever jarring

And opposite to peace.

_Fr. Jhon_. The faults in him.

_Fr. Rich_. As in all other thinges, so even in this

Hee still is apt to wronge mee.

_Fr. Jhon_. Hee that fyrst gives th'occation, fyrst complaines:

It ever was his fashion.

_Fr. Rich_. Never myne:

I appeale to the whole covent.

_Abbot_. Mallyce rooted,

I finde, is woondrous hard to bee supprest.

But knwe where consell and advise preveyle not,

The fayrest meanes that I can wourk your peace,

I'l take upon mee my authority,

And where I finde in you the least contempt

I shall severely punishe.

_Fr. Jhon_. I submitt.

_Fr. Rich_. I yeeld myself to your grave fatherhood.

_Abbot_. Consider, sonnes, this cloystered place of ours

Is but newe reared; the founder, hee still lyves,

A souldier once and eminent in the feild,

And after many battayles nowe retyrd

In peace to lyve a lyff contemplative.

Mongst many other charitable deedes,

Unto religion hee hathe vowed this howse,

Next to his owne fayre mantion that adjoynes

And parted only by a slender wall.

Who knwes but that hee neighboring us so neare

And havinge doone this unto pious ends,

May carry over us and our behavioures

An austere eye of censure?

_Fr. Jhon_. Fitt therefore

Wee should bee in our actions cautelous.[60]

_Fr. Rich_. And carefull least wee may incurr displeasure

Of such a noble patron.

_Abbot_. Well observ'd.

His bewtious Lady--

_Fr. Jhon_. A sweete soule indeede.

_Fr. Rich_. On whom Fryar _Jhon_ casts many a leering eye:

I have observd that too.

_Abbot_. Boath for her outward feature

And for her inward graces excellent

Beyond compare, shee lykewyse is to us

A worthy benefactor.

_Fr. Rich_. Tis confest.

_Fr. Jhon_. Would I might com to bee her confessor:

It is a fayre sweete lady.

_Fr. Rich_.[61] Howe the lecher

Hugges at the very name.

_Abbot_. Morninge and eveninge

They deyly com to mattens and to evensonge;

Such and so greate is theire devotion.

That, if not crasd or feylinge in theire healthe,

They do not misse us any hower of prayer;

And therefore it behooves us all in generall

To sett a carefull watche upon our deedes,

Least we that are proffest religious

Bee in the least deffective.

_Fr. Richard_. Noate, Fryar _Jhon_,

Howe hee makes anticke faces and in scorne

Of this your reverent counsell.

_Fr. Jhon_. I, alas?

A weaknes from my childhood, I confesse,

I ever had and cannott helpe it nowe,

To have a trobled countenance. I make mouthes?

This (most observed father) but approoves

My innosens and his envye. Markt you that?

Fryar _Richard_ bent his fyst and threatned mee.

I call all these to witnesse.

_Fr. Rich_. No such thinge.

I have a crampe oft takes me in this hand

And makes mee weare clutcht ringers, and that passion

Now came upon mee; but for meanacinge him

It ever was farr from mee. This but showes

His owld inveterate mallice, which in charity

I wishe might heare lye buried.--Syrrah, anon

I'l have you by the eares.

_Fr. Jhon_. Doo if thou darst;

We'll tugge it out by the teeth.

_Fr. Rich_. Meete me i'th orchard

Just after even song.

_Fr. Jhon_. I will make short prayers

Bycause I'l keepe appointment.

_Abbot_. I am playne

And breife with all: eather betwixt you too [_sic_]

Make frendly reconsilement, and in presence

Of this your brotherhood (for what is fryar

But _frater_, and that's brother?), or my selfe

Out of my power will putt you to a penance

Shall make you in one weeke fyve fasting-dayes.

_Fr. Jhon_. Oh terrible!

_Abbot_. Or, if that will not tame you,

I will complayne to'th fownder of your loosenes,

Your riotts, and disorders, and petition

That you, as sowers off seditious hatred[62]

And sole disturbers of our common peace,

Maye bee excluded this society,

Banisht by common barre-law, and shutt out

To publick shame and beggerye.

_Fr. Rich_. Horrible!

_Fr. Jhon_. Fyrst then to showe my submisse willingnes

And forwardnes withall: with as much charity

As any new reformed man maye doo,

I with a zeale and hart new reconsiled

Thus humbly begge his love.

(Y'are a rogue, _Ritchard_.)

_Fr. Rich_. To meete his trewe

And most unfeigned affection, heare in face

And viewe of this our holly brotherhoode,

As if in open coort with this mi[63] breath

I heare confine all hatred.

(_Jhon_, y'are a Jack sauce, I meane a sawcye Jacke.)

_Fr. Jhon_. The orchard.

_Fr. Rich_. Theare.

_Abbot_. Why, this is as it should bee, and becomes

A trew religious order. Such as are sequestred

And vowed unto a strict monasticke lyfe,

Ought to putt off these grosse and prophane sinnes

Most frequent amongst laye-men. Unity,

Due conformation and fraternall love.

Devotion, hott zeale, and obediens; these

Are vertues that become a cloyster best.

Nowe lett's retyre unto our oresons

And p[r]eye for our good fownders; may they still

Grow to our wishe and thryve to theire owne will.

[_Exeunt all but Friar Jhon_.

_Fr. Jhon_. More then I woold to have my wishe on thee,

_Richard_, though I have a good stomacke too't,

Ey, and to baste thee sowndly, I woold nowe

To have my will one her. Tis a sweete creature;

Our patron owld, shee younge; som hope in that.

Besydes, shee's woondrous kind and affable;

And when we duck or congee, smiles as if

Shee tooke som pleasure in our shaven crownes.

I am the fyrst that every morninge, when

Shee passes through the cloyster to her prayers,

Attend her with good morrowe, pray for her health.

For her content and pleasure, such as canott bee

Hop't or expected from her husband's age;

And these my frendly wishes she returnes

Not only in kind language but sweete smiles,

The least of which breede som Incoradgement.

I will, if shee persist to proove thus kind,

If not to speeke my thoughts, to wryte my mynd.

[_Exit_.

SCENA TERTIA.

_Thunder_.

_Enter after a greate Tempestuous storme Mr. Ashburne

an Englishe marchant and his man Godfrey_.

_Ashburne_. Was ever knowne such a tempestuous night

Of thunder, hayle, wynd, lightninge! Twas as if

The fower seditious brothers threatned warr

And weare but nowe at battayle.

_Godfrey_. The fower winds you meane; blusteringe fellowes they are.

Preye God all be well at sea, for I am sure the roofes tyles and

ridges have payde for it a shewer.[64]

_Ashb_. The very rafters of the howses bend;

Some breake and are demolisht; barnes blowne downe;

The very chimneyes rattle ore our heads;

The strongest buildinges tremble just as if

Theire is above a tempest, so belowe

There weare a fearefull earth-quake.

_Godfrey_. All our howses

Are nothinge nowe but windowes, broad bay windowes

So spatious that carts laded may drive throughe

And neather loush oth' topp or eathere syde.

Lights every where, we shall have lightnes inoughe:

Heares stupid woork for daubers!

_Ashburne_. We are forct

All to forsake the villaige and to fly

Unto the feilds for succor.

_Godfrey_. Syr, it putt me

In minde of the greate King _Agathocles_,

Who was, as I have heard you oft relate,

Brain'd with a Tyle. Why may not meaner men

Then feare the fall of brick batts?

_Enter Raphael, Treadway, and the Clowne_.

_Treadway_. A strange night

And full of terror; yet, thanks heaven, well past.

_Raphael_. Oh, but I feare the greater storms to come,

A gust that will more shake mee.

_Clowne_. More, quothe hee; I can scarce see howe that well can bee,

for I can assure you the garrett that I laye in putt mee in mind of

myne infancye, for I lye all the night longe as if I had bin rockt

in a cradle.

_Raphael_. Oh, frend, I feare this false and perjur'd slave,

That hathe not kept apointment, hath deceiv'd mee

Boathe of my coyne and pretious marchandyse.

_Clowne_. Did you ever looke for better from a Judas [?] of his

he[yre]?[65]

_Raphael_. Which if hee have--

_Clowne_. Why then hee hathe, and the mends is in y'r owne hands:

that's all that I can say too't.

_Raphael_. Hee hathe undone mee dubly.

_Treadway_. Hope the best.

Perhapps the threatninge weather kept him backe:

Itt was a trobled skye, the soon set blusheing,

The rack cam swiftly rushing from the west;

And these presadges of a future storme,

Unwillinge for to trust her tendernes

Unto such feares, might make him fayle his hower;

And yet with purpose what hee slack't last night

Howe to make goodd this morninge.

_Raphael_. Oh you tent[66]

My woonds too gently, dally with my dowbts

And flutter my trewe feares: the even was calme,

The skye untrobled, and the soon went downe

Without disturbance in a temperate ayr.

No, not the least conjecture coold be made

Of such a suddeine storme, of which the woorld

Till after midnight was not sensible.

His hower was supper, and in faylinge that--

_Clowne_. Ey, nowe begin I to feare too for thee. Breake his woord if

it bee to com to dinner or supper! I'l never trust his bond for the

valewe of a threepenny ordenarye after.

_Raphael_. Post you back to the citty; make inquiries

And most strickt search to find that _Mildewe_ out;

Whom if you meete, fyrst rate his last neclect,

Then hasten his repayer. Heare you shall finde mee

Or in the waye home; for in all this villaige

I woll not leave a howse, a place unsearcht.

If where hee dwells you misse him, then demande

Att every bey what shippinge late went out.

If any vowed love still remane betwixt us,

Make it appear nowe in your present care

And expedition.

_Treadw_. I'l be your _Mercury_,

Not fayle you in the least.

_Raphael_. And so betwixt us

Increase a frendshipp that was never flawed.

[_Exit[67] Treadway_.

_Ashburne_. This gentleman, itt seemes, hathe in this tempest

Sustein'd som losse, he appears so much disturb'd.

_Clowne_. See, syr, heare are some it may bee beelonge to this

villadge; you had best aske of them.

_Raphael_. And well advysed. Hayle, father!

_Godfrey_. No more hayle if you love mee; we had too much of that

last night.

_Ashburne_. Of what sexe are you that you call me so?

I have bene father of a doughter once,

Though not these many yeares blest with her sight,

But of a soone yet never.

_Raphael_. What you have lost

May you in som most fayer and fortunate hower

Againe find to your comfort.

_Ashburne_. You wishe well.

_Raphael_. Sawe you not bowte this villadge late last night,

Or early now i'th morninge, a short fellowe

Thin heyred, flat nosed, sand-bearded and squint eyde?

_Clowne_. The mapp of misfortune and very picture of ill luck.

_Raphael_. Grosse-wasted, gowty-legg'd.

_Clowne_. Whose face is puft up like a bladder and whose belly

lyke a toonne.

_Raphael_. Owld, graye and hoary.

_Clowne_. And withall cheatinge, cousininge, and crafty; a remarkable

raskall, a damnable deceiver, and a most substantiall cinner.

_Ashburne_. By such I have much suffred in my state,

Opprest almost to utmost penury

In my once better fortune; but so late

I sawe not any such.

_Raphael_. Hee was expected

To bee attended by too [_sic_] handsome gurles,

Boathe younge, boathe fayre, but th'one unparreld [_sic_];

Neather of which by computation

Hathe told so hye as twenty.

_Ashb_. If such I chance to meete by accident

I'l send you notyce. Please you leave your name

And place of your abode.

_Raphael_. _Raphael_ I am cald,

A marchant in _Marcellis_, and my lodginge

Is at the _Parratt_ in the markett-place;

There you shall finde mee knowne.

_Ashb_. And by that name

Presume I'l not forgett you.

_Raph_. For which curtesy,

Fare you well, syr;

You shall oblighe mee to you. If not heare

Weele seeke her further; _France_ shall not conteine them

But I will finde theire start-holes.

_Ashb_. Good speede with you.

_Clowne_. If I weare a dogge nowe and coold hunt dry foote[68]

I could smell them out presently.

[_Exeunt[69] Raphael and Clown_.

_Ashb_. Come lett us mount ourselfes upon these rockes

And, havinge feelinge of our hurts at land,

Letts see what shyppes have ben distrest at sea,

If any shaken in this storme or wreckt;

And though wee cannot help the miserable

Yet lett them taste our pittye.

_Godfrey_. Sir, content; but I hope your fishermen have not putt to

sea this night. If they have I sweare they have showed themselves

much madder then the tempest.

_Ashb_. I hope they have bin more discreate and wyse

Then with the hazard of my boates and netts

To indanger theire owne lyves.

_Godfr_. See: do you see, Syr?

_Ashb_. What?

_Godfr_. Why, yonder.

_Ashb_. Where?

_Godfr_. There towards yon shore.

_Ashb_. A shipp laboringe for liffe

Nowe cast upon the rocks, nowe splitt, nowe sinkinge,

Nowe dasht to peeces.

_Godfr_. I see all mischeifes do not com by land,

Som's doone upon the water.

_Ashb_. Though theire goodes perishe,

Yet in thy mercy, heaven, protect theire lyves.

Som sitt upon the planks, som on the masts,

Som hange upon the cables, and som few

Have only gott the cock-boat; others swimme.

Oh that wee shoold beehold theire misery

And want power to assiste them!

_Godfr_. Sure, syr, it was som shipp of passengers,

For see you not too women? daynty ducks!

Would they coold swime as ducks can, see how they spread

And cast theire legges abroad lyke naked frogges!

See howe they spread theire armes and stryve for lyfe!

I[70] would I weare som Dolphin or some whayle

That they might sitt astryde upon my backe

To beare them safe ashore; but I as yet

Could neare indure still water. See yet still,

Still theire coates beare them upp, keepe them aloft;

The modest ayer not willinge to discover

That which the bawdy waves shame not belowe

Rudely to lifte and handle.

_Ashb_. Blesse them heaven!

The wind and tyde still beate them towards the shore,

But oh that cursed billowe hath devyded

And parted them asunder. Yet all's well;

They still beare upp. If they but scape the next

There may bee hope of safetye.

_Godfr_. One's driven this way,

The tother that; the men shift for themselves,

Howe shall we save thes women?

_Ashb_. No meanes unlesse we leape downe from the rockes,

And that's meare desperation. Yet to showe

Our charityes to wretches thus extreame,

Lett's see if wee can find the least descent

And hasten to theire suckor.

_Godfr_. By your favour,

I had rather they with brine shoold break their bellys

Then I my neck with clamberinge.

_Explicit Actus primus_.

_Actus 2_.

SCENA PRIMA.

_Storme continewed. Enter Palestra all well, as newly

shipwreckd and escapt the fury of the seas_.

_Palestra_.[71] Is this then the reward of Innocense,

Of goodness to our selfes, namely chast lyfe,

Pietye to our parents, love to all,

And above all our Christian zeale towardes heaven?

But why shoold wee poore wretches thus contest

Against the powers above us, when even they

That are the best amongst us are servd badd?

Alas, I never yet wrongd man or child,

Woman or babe; never supplanted frend

Or sought revendge upon an enemy.

You see yet howe we suffer; howe shall they then

That false their faythes, that are of uncleane lyfe

And then not only sinne unto them selves

But tempt and persuade others? what shall I thinke

Becoms of my base guardian? though the waves

Have spared the guiltles, sure his putrid s[oule][72]

Cannot escape heavens justyce! wee poor wretches

Are punishe [_sic_] for his grosse impietyes,

They mov'd heavens wrathe, who stir'd the winds and waves

Stryvinge whose fury should destroy us fyrst.

These boathe conspyringe in our ruinne, th'one

Beate us belowe the billowes whilst the other

Swallowed boathe shippe and goodes; [amongst] the rest

A[73] budget or portmantau which includes

All the bawdes wealth. But that weare nothinge to mee

Though he had vowed and sworne to make mee his heyer;

The losse I so lament is a small caskett

Kept by him from my childhood, and packt up

Amongst his treasure; and that perishinge,

I forfett the longe expectation

Ever to knowe my parents, therefore wishe

With it I had i'th sea been buried.

_Enter Scribonia_.

_Scrib_. With perill of oft fallinge and the danger

Of second deathe, having new scapt the fyrst,

I have with feare and terror clim'd these rocks,

And these too past I feare to meete a thyrd.

I spy no howse, no harbor, meete no creature

To point mee to some shelter; therefore heare

Must starve by famine or expire by could.

O'th sea the whystlinge winds still threaten wreckes,

And flyinge nowe for refuge to the lande

Find nought save desolation. Thoughe these three,

Three dreadfull deaths all spare mee, yeat a fowerth,

I cannot shoone [shun] in my _Palestras_ losse,

More[74] deare to mee then all the world besides,

For the best blood of myne runns in her veynes,

This lyfe breath in her bosom. Oh my _Palestra_!

_Palestr_. Numnes and feare, hungar and sollitude,

Besydes my casket, my _Scribonia's_ losse,

All these at once afflict mee.

_Scrib_. Notheinge mee

More than _Palestra's_ deathe. Ha, who's that spake?

Suer twas som womans voyce! if my _Palestra_

Only for her sake I coulde wishe to live.

_Pal_. Then lyve, my deere _Scribonia_, synce I am only

Spar'd to partake with thee newe miseryes.

_Scrib_. Scarce can I bee perswaded you are shee:

But, bee yt but her shadowe, give mee leave

For her remembrance to imbrace it thus.

_Palest_. These armes at once locke all my lyvinge hopes

In my restored _Scribonia_.

_Scrib_. Nowe I perceave

My comfort is not meare imaginary

But reall and effectuall. Lyve you then?

_Pal_. To triumphe in your safety.

_Scrib_. Possible

That mongst these desert unfrequented rocks

Thou can imadgine such a thing can be

As that which you call safety?

_Pal_. Yes, _Scribonia_,

And comfort too; for, see, I spy a villadge,

A maner and a fayre built monastery,

Just at the foott of this descendeinge hill.

And where, if not amongst religious men,

Shoold we find that's calld charity?

_Scrib_. Thether, then:

Lett[75] us make hast with all the speede we can:

Fyre at the least I hope it [is?] well assured,

Besydes releiffe and harbor.

_Pal_. Can you begge?

_Scrib_. What will not rude necessity compell

Distressed folke to doo? We'll not doo't basely,

For beinge brought upp to musick and to sing,

Demandinge in that kind there charity,

And they perceivinge us much better bred

Then these our present fortunes might deserve,

May move in them compassions.

_Pal_. Lett's retyre

To the backe gate then, there complane our wants

And that which others doo with impudence

Lett us in shame and blushes.

_Scrib_. Som sweete echo

Speake from these walls and answer to our wants,

And eather lend som comfort to our grieffs

Or send us hence dispayringe and asham'd.

[_They go in_.

_Pal_. _Oh charity where art thou fled,

And nowe how longe hast thou been dead?

Answer within. Oh many many many hundred yeares

Scrib. In villadge, borrough, towne or citty

Remaines there yet no grace, no pitty?

Answ. Not in sighes, not in want, not in teares.

Pal. Cold comfort in this answer; but proceede.

Above. we see a threatninge skye.

Answ. Beelowe the winds and gusts blowe hye,

And all all to fright hence this same juell.

Scrib. The lightninges blast, the thunders cracke,

The billows menace nought save wracke.

Answ. And yet man is then these much more crewell.

Pal. Unless my judgment quite miscarry,

Shee may lyve in som monastery.

Answ. Tis a place too that was fyrst assigned her.

Scrib. If not amongst religious men,

Yett where, where shall wee seeks her then?

Answ. Yet even there, there, you scarce scarce can find her.

Pal. If chastity and Innocens tryde

Have boathe escaped wind and tyde--

Answ. Yet oh why should the land, land these cherish?

Scrib. Of whome even billowes have a care,

Whom seas preserve, whom tempests spare--

Answ. Yet these these amongst men may perishe._

_Pal_. Uncharitable echo! from a place

Of pure devotion canst thou answer that?

If not in these religious monasteries,

In what place can we find could charity?

_Scrib_. Where ere wee meete her shee is lyke our selfes,

Bare, without harbor, weake and comfortles.

_Enter Fryer John_.

_Fr. Jhon_. What singeinge beggers were those at the gate

That would so early rowse our charity,

Before it was half styrringe or awake?

_Enter Fryer Richard_.

I thinke I answerd them in such a way

As I beleeve scarce pleas'd them.

_Fr. Rich_. What sweete musick

Was that at the back gate hath cald mee upp

Somwhat before my hower?

_Fr. Jhon_. Morrow, fryar _Richard_:

Howe did you lyke our last night's buffetinge?

Whilst all the rest of our fraternity

In feare of that greate tempest weare att prayers,

Wee too pickt out that tyme of least suspition

And in the orchard hand to hand weare att it.

_Fr. Rich_. Tis trew for blooddy noses; and, Fryar _Jhon_,

As you lyke that which is allredy past

So chalendge mee hereafter. But whence cam

Those sweete and delicate voyces?

_Fr. Jhon_. I bare part

In theire sadd quire though none of these yet knw't.

But peace: our Father Abbat.

_Enter the Abbot with other fryars_.

_Abbott_. Morrow, soonns,

An early blessinge on you, if as the larke

Rysen beetymes still to salute the soon,

So your devotion pluckes you from your bedds

Beefore your hower unto your orisons.

Did you not heare a musicall complaynt

Of women that in sadd and mournefull tones

Bewayld theire late disasters, harshly answerd

By a churlish echo?

_Fr. Jhon_. Som such thinge wee heard.

_Fr. Rich_. The noates still persist with mee.

_Pal_. There appeares

In his grave lookes bothe zeele and charity;

Letts to his sight boldly expose ourselfes.

Hayle, reverent father!

_Abbot_. What are you poore soules

Thus wett and wether-bitt?

_Scrib_. Ere you demand

Further from us, letts tast your Christian charity,

Som fyare, som harbor, least ere our sadd tale

Bee fully tould wee perishe.

_Abbot_. Why, whence came you?

_Pal_. From sea; our shipp last night in the great storme

Cast on these rocks and split; this the fyrst place

Exposed unto our eyes to begge releiff.

But oh I faynt.

_Abbot_. Some[76] faggotts instantly:

Hott brothes, hott water for them, and warme cloathes.

Whome the high powers miraculously preserve,

Whome even the merciles waves have borne ashore,

Shall we soe sinke a land? Even wee our selfes

That lyve and eate by others charity,

To others shall not wee bee charitable?

All succor, all supply that can be given,

They from our hands shall tast.

_Fr. Jhon_. Shall we remove them

Into the cloyster?

_Fr. Rich_. Tis agaynst our oath

On any, though the great'st, extremity

To addmitt women thether.

_Abbot_. That I knowe:

Yet in som out-office see them chear'd,

Want nothinge that the cloyster can affourd.

Theire bewtyes, though my eye be bleynd at them,

Deserve no lesse; I looke on theire distresse

And that I pitty. Ech one lend a hand

To take off from theire present misery

And ease theire tender shoulders; when they are cheer'd

And better comforted, I'l finde occatione

To enquire further from them.

_Pal_. Heaven be as kind

To you as you to us!

_Abb_. Feare not fayre damselles:

This place, though not within the monastery,

Yet stands within the cloysters previledge

And shallbee unto you a sanctuary.

_Scrib_. No other wee expect it.

_Abb_. Guide them in: [_Bell ring_.

Bewty and youthe to pitty 'tis no sinne.

_The bell ringes to mattens. Enter the Lord de Averne

and his Lady. Dennis and others_.

_Fr. Jhon_. Harke, the bell ringes to mattens.

_Fr. Rich_. See withall

Our noble patron with his lovely lady

Prepare for theire devotion. Nowe, Friar _Jhon_,

Your letcherous eye is conninge.

_Fr. Jhon_. I knowe my place.

_Abbott_. Way for our noble founder!

_L. Aberne_. Morrowe, father;

So to the rest of all the brotherhood.

[_The quire and musick; the fryars make a lane

with ducks and obeysance_.

_Voyces. Te tuosque semper, oh semper beamus,

Et salvos vos venisse, o venisse gaudeamus._

_Fr. Jhon_. Good daye to our fayre foundresse!

_Lady_. Mercy, Fryar _Jhon_;

Above the rest you are still dutifull,

For which wee kindly thanke you.

[_Exeunt: manet Jhon_.

_Fr. Jhon_. Kindly thanke you!

Nay, smyld withall! allthough that I have more

Then a monthes mind[77] to these younge harletryes

Yet heares the grownd on which I fyrst must build

And ryse my fortunes many steepes[78] hye.

Nay, I perhapps, ere they can drye there smocks,

Will putt th'affayre in motion, whyle these are

Att solleme mattens. I'l take pen and wryte,

And sett my mind downe in so quaint a strayne

Shall make her laughe and tickle, whylst I laughe

And tickle with the thought on't, still presuminge

These lookes, these smyles, these favours, this sweete language

Could never breathe, butt have theire byrthe from love.

But how to ha'tt delivered? there's the dowbt.

Tush I have plott for that too; hee, no questione,

That sett mee on to compasse this my will,

May when the up-shoote comes assist mee still.

[_Exit_.

SCENA 2.

[_Tempest. Thunder_.

_Enter 2 Fishermen_.

_1st Fish_. The trobled sea is yet scarce navigable

Synce the last tempest: yet wee that only lyv

By our owne sweatt and labour, nor cann eate

Beffore[79] wee fetch our foode out of the sea,

Must ventur thoughe with daunger or bee suer

With empty stomakes go unsupt to bed.

_2nd Fish_. And so it often happens.

_1 Fish_. See the cordaige

Be stronge and tight, the netts with all theire stringes,

Plometts, and corks, well plac't for hookes and bates,

This daye wee shall have little use of them:

The wind's still hye, beare but a gentle sayle

And hazard not the channele. Keepe alonge

Close by the shoare, the rocks will shelter us

And may perhapps affoord us lobsters, praunes,

Shrimps, crabbes, and such lyke shell fishe; hence[80] we may

Hunt the sea urchen, and with safety too;

There's many holde hime for a dayntye fishe,

Hee sells well in the markett. That poore men

Are forct too, for a slender competens,

A little to prolonge a wretched lyfe!

_2 Fish_. Com then lett us weighe anchor and aboord:

The soone is upp allredy.

_Enter the Clowne_.

_Clowne_. If ever menn weare madd then suer my master is not well in his

witts, and all about this wenshe; here's such sendeinge and seekeinge,

hurriinge and posteinge, and all to no purpose. I have nowe some thyrty

errands to deliver and knowe not to whome nor where, what nor to which

place fyrst; hee's gone on to the citty and sent mee back to the

villaige, whither his frend travelled[81] one waye, hee another, and I

a thyrd contrary from them boathe; he cannott beleeve his inquiry to be

well doone but hee must send me to doo't over againe. I have asked all

I mett and demanded of all I have seene.[82] But what are theese? these

should bee fishermen. Good morrowe, you sea theeves.[83]

_1 Fish_. You call us theeves that may proove honester

Than many goe for trewe[84] men on the shore.

_Clowne_. Sawe[85] you not passe this [way] an ould bald fellowe

hutch-shoolderd, crooked nos'd, beetle browd, with a visadge lowreing

and a looke skowlinge; one that heaven hates and every good man

abhors; a cheatinge raskall and an ugly slave,--did note such passe

you?

_1 Fish_. If such a one as you describe you inquire for,

Mee thinks, my frend, thou hast mistooke thy way;

Thou shouldst have sought him at the gallowes rather,

There such are soonest fownd.

_Clowne_. Byrlady, worst answered of a playne fellowe; but that you may

knowe him the better, hee had too handsome streete-singing-fact lasses

in his companye.

_2 Fish_. And for such creatures y'had best search the stewes

O'th citty; this our villadge yields none such.

This fellowe doth but flowte us; letts aboord.

_1 Fish_. Inquire for us of wenshes? tush, wee fishe

For no such perewinkles; farewell flesh mongere.

[_Ex. Fish_.

_Clowne_. No wonder these fellowes pretend to be witty; for

understandinge, so manye have lost there witts as ... they have fisht

for it and in som drawenett or other have caught it. But where might

these lost shrewes bee? I suspect this pestiferous _Je vous prie_ hathe

putt some slovenly tricke or other to cheate my mayster boathe of his

ware and mony.

_Enter Scribonia with an empty pale to y'e Clow_.

_Scribon_. Thus beinge chered with warmth, and change of clothes,

With all such comforts as the cloyster yeelds,

I am dyrected to a neighbours by

For water to refreshe and wash our selves.

And this shoold bee the howse.

_Clowne_. What! not _Scribonia_,

One of the flock that's missing?

_Scrib_. Oh sweete _Jayms_,

Where is your noble maister?

_Clowne_. Nay, sweete rogue,

Where is his bewteous mystresse?

_Scrib_. Heare within.

_Clowne_. In this place joyninge to the monastery?

And _Mildewe_ too?

_Scrib_. Rott on that villeyne! no.

_Clowne_. Hee promist to bringe you too alonge and meete with my master

and som others of his frends att supper.

_Scrib_. Can such men, ever false unto theire God,

Keepe faythe with men at any tyme?

_Clowne. _But staye, staye, there's one riddle I cannot expound: howe

com thou so suddenly to lepp out of a howse of roguery into a howse of

religion, from a stewes to a cloyster, from beastleness to blessednes

and from a sacrilegious place to a sanctuary?

_Scrib_. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill,

Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreames

Hathe brought us to the happy patronage

Of this most reverent abbott.

_Clowne_. What dangers? what extreames?

_Scrib_. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night

Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.

_Clowne_. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land![86] I perceive

you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for the

sea, and by cause some one of the wheeles broake and you cast into some

water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you had bene in

danger of drowneinge.

_Scrib_. Are you then ignorant how, late in the even,

With purpose to make better sale of us

And to defraude thy maister, hee shipt us

With all the gold and jewels that hee had,

All which save wee are perisht?

_Clowne_. But that caterpiller, that ould catamiting cankerworme,

what's become of him?

_Scrib_. Dead I hope, with drinkinge of salte water.

_Clowne_. I would all of his profession had pledged him the same

healthe. But how doth _Palestra_ take this?

_Scrib_. Gladd to bee rid of such a slavery,

Yet sadly weepinge for her casket's losse,

That which included ample testimony

Bothe of her name and parents.

_Clowne_. All her ill luck go with it![87]--Heere will be simple newes

to bringe to my mayster when hee hears shee hath bene shippwreckt! Il

make him beleeve I went a fishinge for her to sea and eather drewe her

ashore in my netts, or batinge my hooke strooke her and drewe her upp

by the gills with myne angle. Make you hast for I'l staye till you

come back. [_Exit_.

_Scrib_. But this delaye had allmost putt me from

What I was sent about; yes this is the place.

[_Knocks_.

_Enter Godfrey_.

[_Godf_.] Whoes that that offers violens to these gates

That never yet offended? What want you?

_Scrib_. That which the earthe

Dothe forebidd none, and freely yelds to all,

A little fayre springe water.

_Godfr_.--One of those giurles

Beelyke this morninge shippwrackt and now scapt?

A dainty peece of maydes fleshe. Such sweete bitts

Are not heare often swallowed, and my mouth

Waters at this fine morsell.

_Scrib_. Water, frend;

Tis that I crave for heaven's sake.

_Godfr_. Wee have none

Of guift, unless you by't.

_Scrib_. Will you sell that

The earthe affourds you gratis, and sett pryse

Of what a foe would yeeld an enemy?

_Godfr_. Not, pretty lasse, so thou'lt afford mee that,

Freely and without bargen, which not only

One frend will to another but oft tymes

A stranger to a stranger.

_Scrib_. What's that, prithee?

_Godfr_. Only a kisse, sweete wensh.

_Scrib_. Ye are too familiar,

I'l by none at that pryse: or fill my pale

Or I'l returne back empty.

_Godfr_. Well for once

I will not greatly stand out, yet in hope,

That what att our fyrst meetinge you'l not grant

You'l not denye at partinge; reatch thy pale.

_Scrib_. Quick as you love mee.

_Godfr_. As you love mee! right:

Who[88] ever lov'd that lov'd not att fyrst sight?

The poet's excellent sayeinge.

[_Exit[89] to draw water_.

_Scrib_. What shall I saye or howe shall I excuse

This my longe staye? but nowe I cast myne eyes

Backe on the roughe yet unappeased seas,

I quake to thinke upon our dangers past.

But see the fearefull object of a death

More menacinge and affrightfull, a sea monster

Cast from the deepes to swallow us ashore!

Malevolent fate and black desaster still

Pursues us to all places, but of all

_Enter Myldew and Sarlaboys to her_.

This, this the greatest, and to this one compard

All that are past but trifles. Oh that grand maister

Of mechall[90] lusts, that bulke of brothelree,

That stillary of all infectious sinnes,

Hath scapt the wrack, and with his fellowe guest

And partner in corruption makes this waye,

And with no tarde pace. Where shall I hyde mee!

Whether shall I fly to _Palestra_ back

And with this sadd relation kill her quite

That's scarce recovered! rather, you hy powers,

Then to prolonge our griefes, shorten our howers.

[_Exit_.

_Godfr_. Where[91] is my daynty damosella? where?

Mee thought the water mett mee the half way

And lept up full three stepps to meete my pale.

This 'tis when as a man goes willingly

About his busines. Howe fresh a kisse will tast

From her whyte lipps! and every part besydes

From head to toe have bin so lately duckt

And rincht in the salt water. Wheres my sweete?

Not heare? no where? why, hoe, my whytinge mopp[92]

Late scapt from feedinge haddocks! ha, what, gone?

Nay then, go thou too that shee sent mee for,

To him that next shall find thee! yet not so:

This learned pale instructs mee by these letters

That it beelonges unto this monastery.

And iff it shoold be lost by my default

I may be chardged with theft or sacriledge.

No, I'l deliver it to the owners suer,[93]

And this the place.

_Enter the Bawde Mildewe and Sarlaboyse_.

_Mild_. Hee that woold stoody to bee miserable

Lett him forsake the land and putt to sea.

What widgeing,[94] that hath any voyce at all,

Would trust his safety to a rotten planke

That hath on earthe sounde footinge!

_Sarlab_. None but madmen.

_Mild_. Why thou of none, thrifty and well advised,

Stryvest thou to make mee such, where's now the gayne

And proffitt promist? the riche marchandyse

Of lust and whooringe? the greate usury

Got by the sale of wantons? these cursed jewelryes

With all the wealthe and treasure that I had,[95]

All perisht in one bottom, and all, all,

Through thy malicious counsell.

_Sarlab_. Curse thy selfe.

The trusty bark, ore laden with thy sinnes,

Baudryes, grosse lyes, thy theft and perjuryes

Beesydes the burdene of thy ill gott gooddes,

Not able to indure so greate a weight

Was forct to sinke beneathe them.[96]

_Mild_. Out, dogge!

_Sarl_. Out, devill!

_Mild_. By thee I am made nothinge. Oh my giurles

You sweete and never faylinge marchandyse,

Comodityes in all coasts, worthy coyne,

Christiane or heathen! by whom in distresses

I coold have raysed a fortune! more undoone

That I should loose you thus!

_Sarl_. I knowe hee had rather

See halfe a hundred of them burnt[97] a land

Then one destroyde by water. But, oh _Neptune_,

I feare I have supt so much of thy salt brothe

Twill bringe mee to a feavour.

_Mild_. Oh my _Palestra_

And fayre _Scribonia_, weare but you too safe,

Yet som hope weare reserved me.

_Sarl_. I praye, _Mildewe_,

When you so early to the bottom dyv'd,

For whom weare you a fishinge?

_Mild_. Marry, for maydens;

Woold I knewe howe to catch them. But my gutts,

Howe they are sweld with sea brine!

_Sarl_. Tis good phisick

To cure thee of the mangy.

_Mild_. Wretched man!

That have no more left of a magazine

Then these wett cloathes upon mee, nay the woorst

Of all I had and purposely put on

Only to lyv a shipp-board.

_Sarl_. Once to-day

Thou wert in wealthe above mee, nowe the seas have

Left us an equall portion.

_Mild_. In all the wourld

I vowe I am not woorthe a lighted faggott

Or a poore pan of charcoale.

_Sarl_. Justly punisht

Thou that hast all thy lyfe tyme dealt in fyre-woorks,

Stoves and hott bathes to sweet in, nowe to have

Thy teethe to falter in thy head for could

Nimbler then virginall Jacks.[98]

_Mild_. Th'art a sweete guest.

_Sarl_. Too good for such an host, better to have bin

Lodgd in som spittle; or, if possible,

To bee imprisoned in som surgeon's box

That smells of salves and plasters.

_Mild_. Nowe what sharke

Or wyde-mouth'd whale shall swallowe upp my budgett,

May it at th'instant choake him!

_Sarl_. Cursedly twas got,

And nowe thy curse goes with it.

_Mild_. But those giurles!

Nought so much greives mee as to part with them

Before they lost theire maiden-headds. Had they lyvd

Till I had seen them women, and oth' trade,

My tast and care bestowed to bringe them upp

I should have thought well spent, which nowe with them

Is meerely cast away.

_Enter Godfrey_.

_Sarlab_. Peace now your pratinge and heare another spirit.

_Godfr_.[99] The pale religious, which was the pledge

Of a kisse lascivious, I have given backe,

Ey, and to boote the water; but within

There's such a coyle betwixt the 2 young giurles

Such quakinge, shakinge, quiveringe, shiveringe

Such cryeinge, and such talk of flyinge, then of hyding,

And that there's no abydinge; one cryes out and calls,

The others redy to breake downe the walls;

Then weepinge they whisper together,

And saye they woold roone if they knew whither,

And are indeede putt to such strange affrights

That I was afrayde they weare hunted with sprights,

And therefore cam and left them: lass, poor giurles,

They are in piteous feare.

_Mild_. Hee talkt of guerles: why may not these bee they,

Escapt as wee? staye, younge man, good frend, staye.

_Godf_. Too ould drown'd ratts: I'l have som sport with them,

And though I pitty those I'l play with these.

_Mild_. What gurles weare those thou spakest of?

_Sarl_. Tell us fyrst

Where wee might finde som comfort.

_Godf_. Lett us oh lett us bee advys'd

And living still to all men,

So though wee bee but midle sizd

Wee shalbe held no small men.

_Mild_. Concerning these fayre damosels, speake of that.

_Sarl_. Which now concernes us most, where may wee meete

With warmth, with foode, and shelter?

_Godf_. Oh thou that dost demand of mee

Som fyre, som meate and harbor,

I see thou lately hast ben washt,

Hath _Neptune_ ben thy barbor?

_Sarl_. This fellowe mearely flowtes our misery,

And laughs att our distresses.

_Mild_. But, kind frende,

Concerninge these yonge women, are they fayre?

_Godf_. Fayre flesh and cleane they bothe appeare

And not lyke gypsies umber'd.

_Mild_. How many?

_Godf_. Just as thou and I when wee are

Once but number'd.

_Mild_. Oh, _Sarleboys_, there's comfort in these woords;

They have allredy warmed my hart within,

Why may not these bee they?

_Sarl_. Bee they or not,

I had rather see one caudell downe my throate,

To wash downe this salt-water, than bee mayster

Of all the wenshes lyveinge.

_Mild_. Oh where, where,

Where might I see too such?

_Godf_. Thou that goest sydewayes lyke a crabb, gapst on mee

lyke an oyster,

Followe thy flat nose and smell them there, in th'out part of

this cloyster.

_Mild_. Oh maye this peece of earthe proove happy to mee

As hath the sea bin fatall.

_Sarl_. I'l followe and coold wish

Boath cloyster and whole villadge weare a fyre

Only to dry my clothes by.

_Godf_. Marry hange you

You that so late scaped drowning for I take you

For too pestiferous rascalls.

_Exeunt_.

Explicit Actus 2.

_Act 3_.

SCENE 1.

_Enter the Lady de Averne with a letter in her hand

readinge, and with her mayde_.

_Lady_. And howe came you by this?

_Mayde_. Followinge you to th'chappell

And I protest not thinking anythinge,

Fryar _Jhon_ o'th suddeine pluckt mee by the sleeve

And whisperd in myne eare to give that to you,

But privatly, bycause it was a thinge

Only toweard your person.

_Lady_. Twas well doonne;

But prithee do no more so, for this tyme

Tak't for a warninge.

_Mayde_. Madam I am skool'd.

_Lady_. Doo so, or ever loose me. Heeres[100] sweet stuffe!

Can this be in a vowed monastick lyfe

Or to be fownd in churchmen? 'tis a question

Whether to smyle or vex, to laughe or storme,

Bycause in this I finde the cause of boathe.

What might this sawcy fellowe spy in mee

To incorradge such a boldnes? yes this letter

Instructs mee what: he seythe my affability

And modest smiles, still gracinge his salutes,

Moovd him to wryte. Oh what a chary care then

Had womene neede have boathe of lipps and eyes

When every fayre woord's censur'd liberty,

And every kind looke meere licensiousnes!

I have bin hitherto so greate a stranger

To these unus'd temptations that in truthe

I knowe not howe to take this. Sylly fryar!

Madnes or folly, one of these't must bee.

If th'one I pity, at the other laughe,

And so no more reguard it.

_Maid_. Madam, if ought bee in that letter ill,

Mee thinks 'tis good [that] you can tak't so well.

_Lady_. Peace you; a braineles weake, besotted fellowe!

But lett mee better recollect myself.

Madnes nor folly, and add lust to them,

Durst not in fury, heate, or Ignorans,

Have tempted my unquestioned chastity

Without a fowrth abetter, jealousy.

The more I ponder that, I more suspect

By that my Lord should have a hand in this,

And,[101] knowinge there's such difference in our yeares,

To proove my feythe might putt this triall on mee.

Else how durst such a poore penurious fryar

Oppose such an unheard of Impudens

Gaynst my incensed fury and revendge?

My best is therefore, as I am innocent,

To stooddy myne owne safety, showe this letter,

Which one [?] my charity woold have conceiled,

And rather give him upp a sacrifice

To my lord's just incensement then indanger

Myne owne unblemisht truthe and loyalty

By incurringe his displeasure; heare hee coms.

_Enter the Lord de Averne with som followers;

his man Denis_

_L. Averne_. Howe, Lady? reading?

_Lady_. Yes, a letter, sir.

_L. Averne_. Imparts it any newes?

_Lady_. Yes, syr, strange newes,

And scarce to bee beleaved.

_Lord Av_. Forreyne.

_Lady_. Nay, domestick,

Tis howsehould busines all.

_Lord Av_. May I impart it?

_Lady_. Oh, syr, in any case,

As one it most concernes; but I intreate you,

Reade it with patiens; the simplicity

Of him that writte it will afford you mirthe,

Or else his mallice spleane.--Nowe by his temper

And change of countenance I shall easily find

Whose hand was cheife in this.

_Lord Av_. All leave the place.

_Denis_. We shall, syr.

_Lord Av_. Possible

That this shoold bee in man, nay in man vowed

Unto a strickt abstemious chastity!

From my owne creature and from one I feede,

Nay from a place built in my holiest vowes,

Establisht in my purpose in my lyfe,

Maintayn'd from my revenue, after death

Firm'd and assur'd to all posterityes--

That that shoold breede such vipers!

_Lady_. Patiens, syr; the fellowe suer is madd.

_Lord Av_. I can be madd as hee too and I will.

Thus to abuse my goodnes! in a deede

Som woold hold meritorious, att the least

Intended for an act of piety,

To suffer in my zeale! nay to bee mockt

In my devotion, by these empty drones

That feede upon the honey of my hyve!

To invert my good intentements, turne this nest

[_Ink: paper ready_.

I built for prayer unto a bedd of sinnes!

Which thus I'l punish; this religious place,

Once vowed to sanctity, I'l undermyne

And in one instant blowe the structure upp

With all th'unhallowed covent.

_Lady_. Praye, no extreames:

Where one offends shall for his heighnous fact

So many suffer? there's no justyce in't.

_Lord Av_. Som justyce I would showe them heare on earthe

Before they finde it multiplyed in heaven.

_Lady_. For my sake, syr, do not for one man's error

Destroy a woorke of perpetuity,

By which your name shall lyve. One man offends;

Lett the delinquent suffer.

_Lord Av_. So't shallbe,

And thou hast well advysed. Som pen and Inke theire!

_Lady_. What purpose you?

_Lord Av_. That's soly to my selfe

And in my fyxt thoughts stands irreproovable.

_Enter Dennis with pen, inke, and paper_.

Syr, heares pen inke and paper.

_Lord Av_. To his letter

My self will give him answer. (_writes_)

_Denis_. Suer all's not well that on the suddane thus

My lord is so distempered.

_Lady_. I have, I feare,

Styr'd such a heate, that nought save blood will quensh:

But wish my teares might doo't; hee's full of storme,

And that in him will not bee easily calmd.

His rage and troble both pronounce him guiltles

Of this attempt, which makes mee rather doubt

Hee may proove too seveare in his revendge,

Which I with all indevour will prevent

Yet to the most censorious I appeale,

What coold I lesse have doone to save myne honor

From suffringe beneathe skandall?

_Lord Av_. See, heare's all:

'Tis short and sweete, wryte this in your own hand

Without exchange of the least sillable.

Insert in copiinge no suspitious dash,

No doubtfull comma; then subscribe your name,

Seal't then with your own signet and dispatche it

As I will have dyrected; doo't, I charge you,

Without the least demurre or fallacy.

By dooinge this you shall prevent distrust

Or future breach beetwixt us; you shall further

Expresse a just obediens.

_Lady_. Syr, I shall,

What ere your concealed purpose bee, I shall.

_Lord Av_. Provyde mee horses, I will ryde.

_Denis_. When, syr?

_Lord Av_. Instantly, after dinner, and gie't out

I am not to returne till three dayes hence,

So spreade it throughe the howse.

_Denis_. What followers, Syr,

Meane you to take alonge?

_Lord Av_. Thyself, no more,

For 'tis a private busines, and withall;

Provyde mee,--harke thyne eare.

_Denis_. A stronge one, Syrr.

_Lord Av_. One that will howld; withall give pryvate order

At night the guarden gates may bee left open,

By whiche wee may returne unknowne to any.

What I intend lyes heare.

_Denis_. All wee servants

Are bownd to doo, but not examine what;

That's out of our comission.

_Lord Av_. 'Twixt us too

I shall resolve thee further.

_Denis_. I am gone, Syr.

_Lord Av_. Nowe, sweete ladye, have you doon?

_Lady_. As you commanded.

_Lord Av_. Itt wants nothinge nowe

But seale and superscription; I'l see't doone.

And marke mee nowe; at evensonge, passinge through

The cloyster to the chappell, when the fryar

Amongst the rest bowes with his wonted duckes,

Add rather then deminish from your smiles

And wonted favours. Let this shee post then

Conveigh this letter to the fryar's close fist,

Who no dowbt gapes for answer.

_Lady_. All shall bee

As you instructe; but punishe, syr, with pitty;

Putt him to payne or shame, but deathe, alas,

Is too seveare.

_Lord Av_. Tush, wyfe, feare not; think'st thou Ile

quale[102] a churchman?

[_Exeunt_.